Five guns were laid out on the table in front of him, and he went through them one by one, describing each of their capabilities, strengths and weaknesses. The names were almost mythical in their familiarity: Enfield .38, Colt .45, Walther PPK, Beretta, Browning HP. ‘Now, I want you to go through to the arms store and each draw an Enfield – Miss Moneypenny, I think perhaps the Beretta for you. It’s a lady’s gun, .25 calibre, too light to do serious damage at a distance, but quiet and effective at close range.’
I liked the feeling of a gun in my hand. Though light by gun standards, it felt reliably solid. The grip of cross-hatched wood was cool to the grasp, the dark metal barrel not much thicker than my middle finger. It was the gun, I knew, that 007 had carried for many years,4 to the amusement of 006 and 009, who favoured heavier models. ‘Now, before we let you loose on the range,’ Boothroyd continued, ‘you need first to learn how to look after your weapon. This is every bit as important as being able to shoot the heart out of a moving target, because if your gun jams while you’re in action, you’re dead.’ He smacked his left fist into his right palm.
The next half an hour was occupied with stripping, assembling and cleaning our guns. It was when we learnt how to load the magazines, and how to switch the safety catch on and off, that I began to feel a little uneasy. Handling the bullets, they were heavier than I had expected, more sinister to look at, and I found the loading mechanism stiff and the process slow to complete. And once the gun was loaded, the reality of what I was doing bore down on me, and I found myself holding it more than a little gingerly. Boothroyd was advising where best to carry our weapon. ‘I would always advise tucking it inside your belt or waistband, on your hip or behind you on your shooting-hand side. I know shoulder holsters have a certain fashionability – they don’t spoil the line of your suit, for a start – but to my mind they prevent a fast draw. I’ve known men get shot while they’re removing their weapon from a shoulder holster.’ The idea, right then, of secreting a charged weapon anywhere against my body was distinctly unappealing. ‘Right,’ he continued. ‘We have only just begun, but the rest can wait. I imagine you’re keen to get to the range. I have to go now, but will leave you in the capable hands of Corporal Hedges5 and his crew.’
Earmuffs and eye-shields on and standing in a cubicle looking down the range at the target – a body shape painted to resemble a German soldier – with Hedges at my shoulder zeroing my sight, I felt a flutter of excitement mixed with nerves. I released the safety, raised my arms, trying to keep them steady, and looked down the sights. At the command ‘Fire’, I squeezed the trigger. It was stiffer than I had anticipated, and although I had heard a thousand shots before, I still gave an involuntary start after firing. However, with no noticeable recoil, it didn’t affect my aim and to my satisfaction my first shot landed only inches from the centre of the target. I managed to place the remaining five in a neat cluster around it.
I felt both exhilarated and slightly sick. The power contained in that small metal case was terrifying; the thought of what might go wrong, beyond comprehension. Still, I couldn’t disguise a small smile of pride when our target sheets were collected and compared and I found I had fared the best. ‘Well done, miss,’ said Hedges. ‘You gentlemen are going to have to up your game to match that shooting. It may surprise you to learn that the ladies often shoot better than the gentlemen, especially at a stationary target. They tend to be calmer, and have a steadier hand. We’ll have to see how you all fare next session with the shoot/no-shoot targets.’
Friday, 18th May
M called in 006 this morning and when he came back through the baize door he looked excited. ‘I’m off again,’ he said. ‘Up to the North Pole this time. Keep an eye on Goodnight for me will you?’
According to Bill, it will be a testing mission – that was his little joke. ‘M wants him to verify those reports that have been coming in about a massive nuclear test at Novaya Zemlya6 last year. The Yanks are getting very het up about it. Their birds7 haven’t been able to confirm anything, and we could all do with an accurate head count on missile numbers and types up there.’
007 sent a cable from Casablanca reporting that he’d managed to track down a few old Nazis, but as far as he could see they were more interested in doing experiments into cross-racial pollination than in assassinating Westerners. ‘A bloody wild-goose chase after a bunch of toothless has-beens’ was how he described it in his – unedited – report; I made sure that M did not receive that version. He said he had a couple more leads to check out, before heading back to HQ.
Perhaps, in view of the telephone call I received last week, he would be safer staying away a little longer. Sable Basilisk at the College of Arms8 contacted me. He was extremely apologetic, but said he needed a little guidance. He is apparently being inundated by calls from a girl called Ruby Windsor,9 who is desperate to get in touch with ‘Sair Hilary’. ‘She just won’t stop telephoning for him, and then last week she turned up at the College asking to see him. Luckily, I was passing through the hall and heard her and was able to take her aside. I told her that Sir Hilary Bray was on an assignment abroad. She insisted that they were … er … practically engaged and that she needed to contact him urgently. I said I would see what I could do. She’s now ringing me every day. I’m not sure what else I can do.’
Basilisk sounded embarrassed. I don’t imagine they get too many lovelorn girls battering at the great wooden doors of the College of Arms. Unfortunately, we do, particularly where 007 is concerned, and it’s usually up to me to mop up the mess. I told him to give her my number when she next telephoned and that I would ensure she stayed out of his hair in the future, for which he thanked me profusely.
When the call came through the following day, I was ready. ‘Miss Windsor,’ I said, adopting a haughty tone. ‘Sir Hilary asked me to pass on his warmest regards and to ask whether you had received your family tree. You did? I’m so pleased. He’s terribly sorry that he can’t talk to you himself, but he’s been called away on urgent business to Japan. I shouldn’t tell you, but he’s working with the Emperor over there. Very hush-hush. If it works out, it’ll cause quite a stir. We expect him to be there for some months. Lady Amanda is going out to join him. Have you met her? No? Lady Amanda is his third cousin once removed. They’re to be married later this year. The invitations haven’t been sent out yet; it all depends on how this job goes. He’s a very important man, you know. They’ve been betrothed to one another almost since birth. Now, is there anything I can help you with? He very specifically asked me to make sure you were all right.’
Thankfully she said no. There have been occasions when I’ve had to meet the young girl in question, and even, once, to arrange a discreet doctor’s appointment. I don’t know what it is about the oo agents which makes them seemingly incapable of completing a mission without melting some poor girl’s heart on the way. They’re all as bad as each other, though I suspect 007 has the edge. Or had, anyway. There was that exotic fortune-diviner from Haiti.10 I rather liked her. She came through London a couple of years ago with her fiancé, an American magician she’d met in Las Vegas. James was away, so Bill and I took them to dinner at Simpson’s. Then there was Tiffany,11 the diamond girl. Quite another story. She stayed around for some time – May was always phoning Lil or me to complain about her – said she stayed in bed until noon eating chocolates and leaving the wrappers strewn over the floor. I never met her, but saw them once walking into the Savoy. She was beautiful, but not exactly classy. She proved that when she ran off with the American marine from the Embassy – that must have hurt 007’s pride somewhat, though I doubt it did lasting damage.
The Russian, Tatiana Romanova.12 We all met her, of course. 006 had to go to Paris to bring her back after 007 was kicked by that dreadful Klebb woman. I felt sorry for Tatiana. She was an innocent. She had come to rely on James during the train journey back from Istanbul, and I think she truly believed he liked her for more than her cipher machine.13 She never had a cha
nce to find out; she came back here to a full debriefing by Head of S, the Signals chief and even M himself, before being whisked off to a safe house in the country, given a haircut, a new name and a decent job at GCHQ,14 I believe. It took 007 a few months to recover from the Klebb foot, and as far as I know he never tried to track Tatiana down.
Honeychile Rider.15 That’s a name one doesn’t easily forget. She’s still sending James Christmas cards – Mary came to me with last year’s one, wanting to know who she was. I filled her in on the Dr No mission. I think James was truly fond of Honey, as he called her, but in a paternal way. He arranged for her to go to see a plastic surgeon in Philadelphia to fix her nose, and the last thing we heard she had married the doctor and they had two children. Then there was the physiotherapist from Shrublands – she was the one who got into trouble – and heavens knows how many others. And now poor Ruby.
He may make these girls feel they’re special at the time, but a man like 007 lives for adventure and if they’re part of it then when that particular adventure ends so does their involvement. In the end, it is to M that 007 returns. To M and to the Office, and to me, I suppose.
Sunday, 20th May
R is leaving the country. I arrived back from the park this morning with Rafiki to find him sitting on the stairs outside my flat, clutching a large bunch of flowers. He stood up as he saw me. ‘Oh, Jane,’ he said. ‘I had to see you once more. And I couldn’t go away without saying goodbye to Rafi.’
‘Go away? Where?’ I asked. As he said it, I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. I thought I’d come to terms with the end of our relationship, but the idea of him leaving the country was suddenly hard to bear.
‘West Berlin. I’ve been offered a job by a very good firm, with a shot at a partnership if it all goes well. There’s an enormous amount of exciting work out there and I …’
He tailed off. I suppose what he was going to say was that he needed to get away from me. ‘West Berlin,’ I started. ‘That would be a wonderful place to visit, but to live? With all that’s going on over there now – it might be cut off at any time.’
‘Is that the official Foreign Office line, then?’ he laughed. ‘No, I think I’ll be all right. One has to take risks sometimes, don’t you think?’
We went to the Brompton Grill for lunch. It was not a good choice: it was there that we had met that first Sunday after our return from Barcelona and, inevitably, the memories rushed back to envelop me. The Gaudi cathedral, the rain, rushing for shelter and being rescued by a tall man with an umbrella. A coffee, which turned into a drink and dinner that night. And the next and the next. We had so much to talk about, it seemed. I was drawn to the look of intelligence in his eyes, his long, slender hands, his passion for architecture, the way he seemed to find the laughter in everything. For the rest of that weekend, we acted like a young couple in love for the first time – and maybe for me it was?
Back in London, at first our lives seemed to mesh together neatly. For once, I didn’t feel crowded and, I suppose, somewhere in the back of my being, I dared to dream that this time it might not have to end. But it did, and it has, and despite the ugliness of the last few months, I shall miss him.
We embraced goodbye. He held me away, looked into my eyes and told me to be careful. I have a funny sense that he knows something that he hasn’t told me.
Friday, 25th May
A horrible, horrible day. At lunchtime I found Raine in a dreadful state, rushing along corridors asking everyone if they had heard from CNE.16 He didn’t show up for work this morning. She called his house and his wife said he hadn’t come home last night – she had assumed he’d stayed at the office. I asked if his car was here. ‘No,’ said Raine. ‘He left the car-park at 8.15 last night. What is so horrible is that his office is so tidy. It’s impeccable. There are no papers on his desk, his wastepaper basket has been emptied, and you know what chaos it is normally.’ I took her by the arm to tell Bill. Somehow, whenever there’s a crisis, I turn to him.
He looked immediately concerned when he heard. He told Raine to go back to her office and telephone all of CNE’s regular haunts. ‘I’ve done that already,’ she said. ‘Then do it again.’As soon as she’d left he buzzed through to M’s Office. Then he asked me to call Vallance [Assistant-Commissioner Ronald Vallance] at Scotland Yard. ‘Ask him to put an APB [All Points Bulletin] out urgently, please, with special vigilance at the national exit points. Then call the Watchers17 and tell them to keep an eye out for Mostyn at Kensington Palace Gardens [the Soviet Embassy].’
We heard from Scotland Yard shortly after four. Vallance called M directly. When he opened his office door he looked suddenly ten years older. ‘I’m afraid we’re too late, Bill,’ he said. ‘CNE was found inside his car on Hampstead Heath. He’s dead, I’m afraid. Looks like suicide. Miss Moneypenny, could you go and break the news gently to his secretary. Make sure she gets home safely. And please ask Miss Fields to come up here now.’
By the evening, the news had spread around the whole Office. Everyone was walking around in a state of shock, not knowing quite what to think. Poor CNE. I suppose it must mean that our speculation was founded, that there had been a mole, and that it was he. I would never have suspected poor old Clive Mostyn. He always seemed such a gentle man, so completely dedicated to the Office.
Saturday, 26th May
News of CNE’s death was reported in The Times, in a short article that managed to allude to his true profession without stating it categorically. Someone from this place has obviously been talking. M is not going to be best pleased. I can’t help but feel sympathy for Mostyn’s family – I believe he had young children and now they’re going to have to grow up with a pall of suspicion hanging over their father’s death.
Sunday, 27th May
Lunch with Zach. I’d been looking forward to it, a welcome antidote to the tragedy at the Office. We arranged to meet outside Harrod’s and I’d just arrived when he swept around the corner in a new car. It was a soft-topped, two-seater silver Mercedes 300 SL, with a wonderfully throaty growl. He was wearing a navy cap and cream scarf and looked very dashing. He certainly made the Knightsbridge ladies’ heads turn. I had on my Jaeger silk tea dress, and couldn’t suppress a shiver of pride that it was beside me that he stopped. The car had been delivered just two days ago, he told me. ‘I’ve been waiting for it for weeks now. That was why I didn’t ask you to lunch before. I thought we would go to the country, if that’s acceptable to you.’ I had no objections and sat very happily as we barrelled along the Great West Road, my hair whipping against my cheeks. While we were moving, conversation was impossible. He turned every now and then to smile and I noticed, for the first time, that he had exceptionally perfect teeth. I found them rather off-putting. Post-war dentistry in Tanganika must have been superior to what we had to endure in Kenya.
We had a lovely lunch at a small pub in Maidenhead, then went for a walk along the river. The last time I had been there was with R and I felt a momentary pang of sadness for what could have been, as well as a sliver of guilt that I was enjoying it now with another man. It was a beautiful late-spring day and we sat down to feed the ducks and swans with our purloined bread rolls, when Zach brought up the subject of Pa again. I have to admit I was half longing for it and half dreading it. Replaying it now, I am forced to admire the easy way he dropped it into the conversation, ‘You love animals,’ he said. ‘You must miss that about Africa, your pet meerkat …’ It was as if a red flag had gone up; I was sure I hadn’t mentioned Evie to him. But I said nothing and he continued, leaning a little closer. ‘I was intrigued by what you said about your father last time we met. I searched through my memory and managed to track down the person who had mentioned him to me.’
I asked if he was sure it was my father.
‘I am sure. Hugh Moneypenny. He disappeared on 25th October 1940.’
I was sitting up straight now.
‘I’ve found out a considerable amount about him. Things that will surp
rise you and, I hope, please you.’He paused, before dropping the thunderbolt. ‘Your father did not die in 1940. He survived Operation Ruthless and was taken back to Berlin as a prisoner. I spoke to someone who had met him. It was this person who told me about your meerkat, Evie, I must confess, and the warthog you named after Winston Churchill. Your father called you Janey, didn’t he?’
I nodded, unable to speak, desperate to make some sort of sense of what he was saying. He just looked at me. Two questions were spinning round and round in my mind, but it took what felt like a long time to be able to form my mouth around them.
‘When did he die? Is he still alive?’
Zach shrugged. ‘It is certainly possible. My contact seemed to indicate that this might be the case. I can do more, if you want me to. But it will require some considerable effort. My contact is not going to tell me this sort of information easily. I will need something from you in return.’
I started to feel icy fingers tip-toeing up my back, as he continued. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not that I want to go to bed with you – although of course I do.’He smiled.
I looked straight back at him. ‘I want to know more than anything what happened to my father and will give you what I can. But what does your contact need? I’m not a rich woman, but I have some savings.’
He shook his head. ‘Not that. No, I need to know a bit more about what you’re doing … I know where you work.’
I must have let the shock and horror show on my face. He put his hand on my arm and I snatched it away. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ he said. ‘I promise this will remain our secret. You are good at keeping secrets, I think. Come on, let’s head back now. You must think about this – I just want to help you and I won’t be able to do so unless you give something back. We will meet again in one week and talk about it some more.’
We drove back to London in silence. I can’t even begin to sort out the conflicting emotions that are raging around my entire body at the moment. I’m lost and there’s no one I can turn to. Can I ever trust my instincts again?
Moneypenny Diaries: Guardian Angel Page 10
