MODIFIED GETAWAY CARS. In response to increasingly thorough searches by border guards, who are fully aware of the usual hiding places, we have fitted each car in the new cross-border fleet with one of the following: secure strapping beneath the car (note: subject being transported must be wrapped in a thermal blanket to mask body heat and prevent detection by Soviet temperature-scanning equipment); hollow behind front grille – large enough only for a man or woman below 5 ft 9 inches in height, who should not be left there for more than 53 minutes, if gasification is not to occur; on car rooftop in hollowed out luggage.
SPY PLANES
The pictures we are receiving from American U-2 spy planes are of increasingly high quality. The planes have seven Perspex ports, each linked to Hycon cameras specially developed for the Central Intelligence Agency, which combine an expanded focal length with a precision-engineered lens which, using Kodak high-grain film, theoretically allows details of 2 inches to be caught from a height of 70,000 ft. (N.B. Technicians require an advanced course in deciphering these photographs for the accurate identification of anything smaller than a bus.)
May
The idea that some of my grandfather’s compatriots and fellow initiates to Ruthless might still be alive did not occur to me until it was almost too late. By chance, I caught sight of Patrick Derring-Jones’s obituary in the Guardian three days after his death on 12 October 2003; it detailed his wartime exploits while attached to Naval Intelligence, saying that he ‘came closer than any other candidate to being the true-life original of Ian Fleming’s Bond’. It was a case of truth and fiction having become seriously entangled: Derring-Jones served with Fleming – and my grandfather – in NI, and Fleming later wrote the series of books in which my aunt was depicted as a fictional character. Sometimes the intertwined connections threatened to short-circuit my brain.
Derring-Jones was ninety when he died; what if one of the others in that close group was still alive? Fleming, I knew, had died many years before, of a heart attack on 12 August 1964. Sydney Cotton followed him five years later, after a full and varied life. Hugh Moneypenny and Miles Pitman were both taken captive by the Germans and never heard of again. Which left one man: Peter Smithers. I typed his name into Google and came up with a string of results, mostly connected to horticulture and plant photography. This Peter Smithers, I learned, was born in Yorkshire and educated at Harrow and Oxford, emerging with a first in history, before signing up to the RNVR in the run-up to war, when he was seconded into Naval Intelligence. It had to be the same man.
The most recent website found was that of a garden-lover’s guide to Switzerland, which included an invitation to botanists to visit the private gardens of Villa Morcote, created by the renowned British horticulturalist Sir Peter Smithers. The address was there; I could find no mention anywhere of Smithers’s death. In the summer of 2004 I wrote to Sir Peter.
He telephoned only three days later. Although he was ninety-one years old, he sounded as lucid and sharp as a much younger man. ‘I would be more than happy to talk to you about Ruthless,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t travel any more, but you would be welcome to come to visit us out here.’ I did not need any further invitation.
On 15 August I flew to Zurich and transferred on to a train for the three-hour journey across the mountains to Lugano, on the Italian border. I was met at the station and driven to Villa Morcote, which turned out to be a stunning Japanese-inspired house, designed by Sir Peter after his retirement as Secretary-General of the Council of Europe, and lived in by him and his wife ever since. It was late evening when I arrived. I was greeted by a tall, slim man, wearing an embroidered kaftan, which somehow managed to make him look stylish and aristocratic, yet unmistakably British. From the minute he shook my hand, I was charmed. We sat on a sofa in front of large glass windows, through which I could see the lights twinkling around the great lake below. It was as though I had entered a different, magnolia-scented world, where the best of values were still upheld, where gentle intelligence would always triumph over ambition and pride. It was wonderful to feel that this man and my grandfather had been close friends.
He explained how they had first met: ‘It was in the Admiralty, Room 39. I’d been invalided out of active service and instead attached to Naval Intelligence. I was called to an interview with Admiral Godfrey – we called him Uncle John, though never to his face, of course. I was shown into this large room. There were perhaps six or seven desks in those days, occupied by officers in uniform and probably two women secretaries. I was introduced to them in turn.’He recalled his first impressions of my grandfather – his warm smile and engagingly direct way of talking. ‘It was also when I met Ian [Fleming] for the first time, at his desk in the far right corner of the room, immediately by the door to Uncle John’s office. Over the next year or so, we would spend much of our spare time together, such that we had.’
He described lunches at Josef’s, a small restaurant in Greek Street, where they would meet to discuss whichever of Fleming’s schemes was the flavour of the day. ‘He was always coming up with these quite outrageous plans – some were brilliant, others hopelessly impractical. Never dull. We all used to indulge him – in some ways I think we were quite in awe of Ian: he was a tremendously charismatic fellow. He would often ask some of his other contacts to join us. It was at Josef’s that I met that man from Wilkinson Sword – I can’t recall his name – who agreed to make me this.’He reached across to the coffee table, to pick up what looked like a long cane. With a glint in his eye, he grabbed one end and pulled out a slim, three-cornered blade. ‘A naval officer off duty always carries a stick. Mine was just a customised version.’
His description of Operation Ruthless tallied in almost every detail with that given to my aunt by Patrick Derring-Jones. Sir Peter said he had asked himself over and over again whether they had made the right decision that day, but that they honestly hadn’t seen any alternative; that my grandfather had made a marvellous sacrifice for Patrick and for him, and that by going back they would only have been captured themselves.
‘What do you think happened to Hugh?’ I asked. He shook his head sadly, and said he didn’t know, but feared the worst.
Tuesday, 1st May
009 is back from Singapore. The lead to Blofeld turned out to have been a red herring; he found no evidence that either Blofeld or Bunt had been there. When Bill heard, he shook his head. ‘It’s been nearly seven weeks since the last sighting. Damn man seems to have dropped off the edge of the world. I suppose that’s it, then. The Old Man will order the file to be put on the back burner; we can’t afford to have men shooting around the world after ghosts – you know what he’s like about wasting service time.’
James is not going to be best pleased to come back to this news. I think on some level he regards getting Blofeld as the only true recompense for Tracy’s death.
Thursday, 3rd May
An unsettling experience. I got home from work yesterday, collected Rafiki and walked up the stairs to my door. It was locked, as usual, but when I opened it, Rafi started barking furiously. I was immediately on my guard, and stepped inside with some trepidation. At first glance, nothing appeared to have been touched. But Rafi was still on edge – rushing around the flat, in and out of every room, sniffing and barking.
I followed him, checking behind doors, opening every cupboard, but there was no intruder. Then I closed the front door and jammed a wedge beneath it and went to the hiding place. My relief that it hadn’t been discovered, that none of my indicators had been disturbed, was immeasurable.1
Feeling more relaxed, I was going into the kitchen to put on the kettle, when my eye was caught by the pad beside the telephone. When I’m talking on the telephone, I tend to doodle with my left hand – I’ve always wanted to be ambidextrous, for no particular reason, and practise when I’m talking. But the pad and pen were on the right. I froze inside. I went over to take a closer look, but other than that, there was no sign of tampering. Then I went back
to the front door and opened it to examine the lock. I felt a shiver down my spine when I recognised the tell-tale scratches that even the most talented lock-picker can’t avoid.
Shutting it again, I drew across the chain and sat on the sofa, shaking slightly, thinking about what could have happened. I was almost certain that someone had been in my flat. And if that was indeed the case, what had they been looking for? At least they hadn’t found the diaries. I thank every lucky star that my hiding place held up. Writing these is a betrayal of all my training, all my ethics. It’s a risk I take every time I get out my pen and open the cover. I know I should stop, but that would be a greater betrayal of Pa. So I live with the guilt every day and try not to think about the enormity of the consequences if they were found. Not only would my career be finished, instantly, but who knows how much damage would be wrought on the Office. It takes something like this to force me to face up to it. And yet, at the same time, I feel compelled to reach for my pen to record my thoughts.
Apart from these, there is nothing in my flat that could get anyone excited. I can’t believe that the African carvings and paintings would pick up much on the open market. Maybe one could get something for the wireless, or my mother’s portable gramophone or Pa’s old carriage-clock? But the photograph albums, Ma’s Kenyan journals, my modest wardrobe and several shelves of well-thumbed books would have little value to a stranger. Looking around me, it seems like a pretty modest haul for more than three decades of living. My few pieces of real jewellery are in the bank – I was wearing my pearls, and the rest is paste. Nothing, apparently, to interest this intruder.
But presumably he had been through everything? The private effects of my life? The thought of it makes me feel sick – but even worse is the motivation behind it. Why me? Have I been targeted? And if so, why? I’m filled with unease. The idea that I have stepped through the looking-glass; from being a hunter, I have become one of the hunted. It’s almost too bewildering to take on board. Of course, we are all targets, juicy morsels of enticing information, potential bonanzas to Them. But me? I’d never considered it. To all intents and purposes I’m a secretary, a civil servant, an anonymous woman. I cannot have come to Their attention.
My first instinct was to call the Office. I went across to the telephone, but then stopped myself. What would I say to them? That my dog had barked? That the pad was on the other side of the telephone and there were some tiny marks around the lock? And what if they decided to come and search the flat thoroughly themselves? It would be a horrible irony if my secret were to be discovered by my own side.
Instead I called an emergency locksmith. By the time he had left, it was late. I telephoned Helena, and told her all about my visit to Scotland – the idea of waiting until I had something more concrete to report suddenly seemed selfish. I shouldn’t have worried about raising her hopes – she was excited by the news, but warned me that I shouldn’t expect too much. We talked for a long time about Pa and those days at the far frontier of our memories. I ended up saying nothing about the break-in for fear that she would worry. Sleep not being an option, I bundled Rafi into the Mini with no particular aim, and in due course found myself driving along Edgware Road and towards Marylebone. R’s place.
It’s been over two weeks since we last saw each other, and although we have spoken a few times, they were awkward conversations. Even a month ago, my instinct at a time like this would have been to telephone him; he would have rushed straight over and I am sure we would have ended up treating it as another experience to notch up on the bed-head of life. Despite the awkwardness of our last meeting, I still found myself wanting to see him. It was past midnight, but he wouldn’t mind being woken.
I parked outside his building and Rafi bounded ahead of me up the stairs. I knocked on the door and it was opened almost immediately. R was fully dressed. ‘Jane, are you all right?’ he asked. His embrace seemed almost tentative. ‘Yes, fine. We were just passing. Neither Rafi or I could sleep.’ He looked at me. ‘Has anything happened?’ We went through to his drawing-room and sat down (there were three empty coffee cups on the table, I noticed). I told him about my fears that my flat had been broken into. He asked if anything had been taken, and when I said no he asked more and more questions. Who had I seen recently? Who might have known where I lived?
I was beginning to get irritated. I told him I really hadn’t come round to talk about it. Then, I suppose, I lost control. ‘Why are you so interested anyway?’ I asked.
He looked at me. ‘What are you implying?’
‘Nothing, just that you also seemed to be very interested in my personal things.’
‘Oh come on, Jane. That isn’t worthy of you. Are you comparing me to a burglar? This is crazy.’
I left without a word. Thank goodness I had Rafi with me. He tried to climb on to my lap on the way back and when we got home he jumped into my bed and showed no inclination to leave.
I felt enveloped by shame; I wish I could have taken back what I said. I took half a grain of Seconal and fell into merciful oblivion.
Sunday, 13th May
Dinner last night with Zach. A perplexing occasion. I lay awake almost until dawn turning over what he had said in my mind, exploring every nuance from one direction and then the next. He’d taken me to a small Italian restaurant called Nino’s, off the King’s Road, a busy place, staffed by cheerfully shouting Italian waiters pushing dessert trolleys.
It was, he told me, the first restaurant he had come to in London, when he was a young man. He’d got himself in a spot of trouble and his father had come over here to bail him out, followed by dinner at Nino’s and a strict talking to. Zach looked at me carefully before apologising: ‘Was that insensitive of me? You never had a father to get you out of scrapes.’
I smiled and told him not to worry, that I had really got myself into any kind of serious trouble.
The waiter came over with our food. It was delicious – tender veal marinated in lemon with buttered spinach. It wasn’t until we’d finished our main courses and ordered coffee that he started talking about my father again. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about your father. It all sounds very familiar. I am sure I have heard someone talking about him. Maybe it was in Tanganyika? Or maybe Berlin? I can’t be sure. But Hugh Moneypenny: it’s a name that is not easily forgotten.’
I was too surprised to say anything. Pa has been uppermost in my mind since Scotland, but it was the last thing I’d expected to hear from Zach. I must have looked amazed, as he went on. ‘Yes, I’m sure I could find out more. If you want me to, that is. Come to think of it, I don’t believe it was in Africa. Not unless it was on one of my recent trips. But why would your father have come up in conversation? Who would I have talked to about him? No, it must have been in Berlin.’
I was still shocked, but not so much that I didn’t notice him looking at me intently. I returned his gaze, but couldn’t read anything in those pale-grey eyes. It was as if an iron shop-front had been lowered over a jeweller’s window. Was he humouring me? Trying to grab my attention? Or was this something altogether more complicated?
‘Yes,’ I said eventually. ‘Of course I would love to learn anything I can about my father. Yes, yes, of course. I would be very grateful for any memories about him. I’m sorry I seemed so stunned. I suppose he must have met so many people in his life. He had a long life before I was even born. It’s just funny …’ I realised I had been gabbling and stopped myself abruptly.
‘What’s funny?’ he asked.
‘Nothing really. It’s just that I have been thinking a lot about my father recently. It comes in phases.’
And then the conversation veered back to other matters, the shutters were raised and Zach was as charming and amusing a dinner companion as I could have wished for. We had another cup of coffee before he walked me to the Brompton Oratory. He wanted to see me to my door, but I insisted I could make my way through the mews myself, that I enjoyed late-night walks alone. He laughed. ‘You are cert
ainly an extraordinary woman. What other idiosyncrasies do you have, I wonder? Do you enjoy swimming in Arctic streams, or riding racehorses backwards? Please let me take you out for lunch one weekend soon so I can find out more about them.’
Last night, as I lay in bed, I replayed that short conversation about Pa over and over in my head. What was it about it that had started the alarm bells ringing? Probably nothing, just an excessive sensitivity towards anything that smelled of tradecraft: how to hook an agent, then reel them in. That on top of the suspected break-in, which I have almost convinced myself must have been in my imagination. This is the real world, though; most people live their lives without deception. That Zach had heard my father’s name must have been a coincidence – the world is a small place. But why would he have heard about him in Berlin, of all places? As far as I knew, he had never been to Germany. It was impossible.
Monday, 14th May
My first shooting lesson. When I mentioned to Bill, in passing, that I was worried about burglars, he insisted I learn to defend myself. He buzzed straight through to Major Boothroyd2in the Armoury and set it up there and then. I can’t quite see myself keeping a gun under my pillow in Ennismore Gardens, but I used to be fairly good with a rifle in Kenya3 and I’ve always wanted to try my hand at target shooting.
There were four of us – three new male officers and me. We reported to the basement at nine sharp and were led into the briefing-room, a windowless dungeon set up like a classroom with desks and chairs. Major Boothroyd stood at the front, a diminutive figure in a navy blazer with regimental buttons and tie. ‘Firearms are formidable weapons,’ he told us, ‘Used properly, they are extremely effective both in attack and for self-protection. However, it is not just a matter of pointing them at a target and firing. With a gun comes responsibility and it is this, as well as the rudiments of shooting them, that we will teach you over the weeks that follow.’
Moneypenny Diaries: Guardian Angel Page 9
