It was the question that had been lurking at the edge of my consciousness, that I hadn’t dared to confront. The implications were terrifying: this was no longer about me, but the possibility – the probability – of a leak, and it couldn’t have been Clive Mostyn, poor old CNE. I could no longer pretend that I could make it go away on my own; I would have to make a full report.
August
From the beginning – that cool Cambridge afternoon when I opened the first of my aunt’s diaries and began to read – I knew that verification was going to be neither easy nor straightforward. Secret organisations are notoriously wary of declassifying one word more than they can possibly help, and the SIS is the champion of caution. When MI5, under its first woman chief, Stella Rimington, inched open its doors and archives to public scrutiny, its sister organisation did not follow. Today, the National Archive in Kew holds several shelves of declassified MI5 files – but few emanating from MI6. To be able to authenticate The Moneypenny Diaries to a level that I knew – once I was on the route to publication – I would need to achieve in order to dispel the assumption that they are works of fiction, I would have to find alternative sources.
The first step towards verification was simple: many of the events that my aunt wrote of are well documented. From books and journals I was quickly able to match her dates with, for example, the known launch date of Tsar Bomba from Novaya Zemlya, or Raúl Castro’s visit to Moscow. Contemporary newspaper reports confirmed the death of Tracy Bond in a car accident on 1 January 1962. Sir James Molony was a well-known and eminent neurologist, a member of the Royal Society – although his connection to SIS was never formally documented. The Bay of Pigs happened, of course, as did the Suez Crisis and numerous other events of international importance that my aunt recorded, if only in passing.
My first few visits to the National Archives were more frustrating than productive. I spent hours spinning through their indexes, but found little of immediate relevance. My approaches for permission to search the archives of the Secret Intelligence Service met with a polite – and I suspect amused – refusal. I realised I would have to take another tack. Looking through the 1962 diary, it appeared that much of what I was seeking to confirm had a second party element: there was a CIA presence, for instance, at most of the Cuba Group meetings, and since Bond’s mission to the Caribbean was at the behest of the US Attorney-General, it was possible that a copy of the relevant files had been sent to Washington. I decided to refocus my enquiries to the other side of the Atlantic.
A week after the end of the university year, I booked a flight to Washington, DC. I caught a taxi directly to the Gelman Library, George Washington University. The semester had not yet finished, and I walked into a collective daze of exam-weary students sheltering from the humidity outside. I found what I was looking for on the seventh floor, behind glass doors: the National Security Archive, a non-aligned and non-profit institution dedicated to the expansion of public access to government information. Since the passing of the Freedom of Information Act in the 1980s, the NSA has amassed an enormous volume of information of the sort that is not available in the UK. It was as a result of energetic NSA lobbying that many of the documents relating to US activities in Cuba in the early 1960s had recently been released to public scrutiny.
I had already been in email contact with a G. L. Chong, Senior Archivist, Cuba Section, and when I announced my name at the door I was told he would be right with me. I had just sat down on a faux-leather chair and started flicking through one of the catalogues on display when I heard my voice being called: ‘Dr Westbrook?’ A young man with an unruly halo of spiky black hair was blinking in my direction through green-rimmed spectacles. He looked like a young badger emerging into his first spring. ‘Hi. Gordy Chong. Great to meet you. Come into my cubbyhole. Apologies for the mess.’ He led me through a burrow of small rooms, each occupied by a researcher buried under a sea of paper or typing furiously into a computer.
His office was no more ordered. ‘I must tell you that I did my masters at Cambridge. Emmanuel College. 1998. It was an unforgettable experience, a most wonderful place. And the libraries …’ He proceeded to extol the delights of the University Library, a utilitarian monstrosity whose possibilities I had nevertheless found exciting for rather different reasons to those of Mr G. L. Chong. I let him continue – it was preferable to explaining that I wasn’t here on university business, that I needed his help on a private investigation. When he eventually ran dry of superlatives, I specified the papers I needed: the Operation Mongoose files and anything relating to British secret service activity in Cuba, or the Cuban agent known as Caballo.
He looked momentarily puzzled. ‘Caballo? I don’t recall having read anything about him – not in the recent declassifications anyway. But for the rest, you’ve come to the right place. If it exists, we’ll have it. I’ll show you how to work the computer terminals, then you’re on your own.’
Over the next week, I delved deep into the once secret files of American intelligence. Gordy was right: it was a trove of incalculable value. Within days I had found Agent Scott’s minutes of the Cuba Group meetings – my aunt’s name even appeared on the list of attendees – as well as contemporary reports on the deaths of the two CIA agents near San Cristóbal in June 1962. I read detailed plans for the annihilation of Castro by a range of means including Mafia-fired bullets, analyses of the strength of the Cuban forces, and financial estimations of the damage caused to the Cuban economy by covert activities carried out under the name of Operation Mongoose. But no mention of Caballo – or of British involvement.
It was in early 2005, shortly after the British Freedom of Information Act was passed, that I revisited the National Archives. I was getting desperate; there were holes in my aunt’s story that I needed to fill. I wasn’t sure what I would do if I could not find the confirmation I was looking for. I submitted yet more requests for files which I knew I had little chance of viewing. I was probably looking somewhat frustrated, as an archivist took pity on me and suggested I look in the files of the Joint Intelligence Committee. ‘We’ve just had several box-loads delivered – we haven’t had time to go through them all yet, but they cover the dates you’re interested in,’ he said. ‘You could come back in a few weeks to view them.’ I smiled. I told him how helpful he had been, that I wished I could, but once term began I would be too busy. And I needed them very urgently. ‘If I wear gloves and don’t tell your supervisor, please could I look through them?’ I begged.
It worked. I was shut in a room with five boxes of virgin files, and when I came out I had found my personal Holy Grail. Tucked inside routine JIC minutes, secretariat files and weekly reviews,1 I came across a slim file of SIS agent reports, including those sent by Bond from Cuba and referred to in my aunt’s diaries. They concurred in every respect with what she had written. There was no more cause for doubt.
Wednesday, 1st August
Lunch with Bill. As soon as I got in on Monday, I went to see him and told him I needed his advice, badly.
‘Of course, Penny. What is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s rather delicate, I’m afraid. It may take some time.’
‘Lunch Wednesday. A steak at Bully’s?’
While Bill tucked into his entrecôte, making appreciative noises, I chewed on a piece of bread and wondered how to broach the subject.
‘Come on, Penny, it can’t be so bad. What have you been up to? Selling secrets to the Russians?’ He laughed, but when I didn’t join in, he reached across and took my hand. ‘Come on, old girl, spit it out.’
So I told him about meeting Zach at the concert, about his offers of help in uncovering what had happened to my father, then his requests for secret documents. He stayed silent throughout, listening carefully. He’s an extraordinary man, Bill. He carries the weight of the Office on his shoulders; he is M’s filter, his sounding-board and factotum all mixed into one. Whatever M sees, Bill has seen first. When M makes a decision, Bill ensures it is carried ou
t to his exacting standards. Throughout the whole building, only M and Bill have access to every file, every report, every signal. And through all this he manages to remain a good friend, to me, to 007, and even to M, if he knows the meaning of such things.
When I’d brought him up to date, he thought for a minute longer, then smiled gently. ‘I’m so glad you told me, Penny; I only wish you’d come to me sooner, then I could have helped you through it. You must have been through hell. Don’t worry any more. Leave it with me for a bit; I need to think. We’ll try to fix it involving the fewest people possible. Our first priority is to identify whoever it is that’s been after you, and to get them off your back. Then we need to trace this leak.’
He was silent for a while, appearing to make his mind up about something. ‘I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you didn’t guess when I say that we learnt in February that we had a mole in the Office. Kingfisher2 said it was a section head. It came as a complete shock to the Old Man. He set Dorothy Fields to work on finding out who it was. She’d whittled the list down to two; one was CNE. At first, we assumed that his suicide was an admission of guilt, but Dorothy had always favoured the other man. We decided to act as though the investigation was over, in order to smoke him out, and indeed a couple of things have come up recently which suggest that her instincts were sound. What you’re telling me now appears to confirm it. I’m going to brief Dorothy on this straight away. She’s spent so much time exploring the back channels of this sorry affair; perhaps she’ll have some ideas. At this point, I don’t think we need to take it any further. But don’t worry. If they contact you again, make some excuse to get back to them. Then we can devise a plan to try to discover who they are.’
The relief is extraordinary. I feel like I could sleep for weeks. It’s only now that I realise how much it had been affecting me, making me creep around furtively with one eye always over my shoulder. Every time I get this journal out, I feel a stab of fear – but I still can’t stop writing. It’s the one time when I feel in control of what’s happening. I keep wondering whether I should move the hiding place. But then it hasn’t been discovered yet, so perhaps I shouldn’t tempt fate?
Monday, 6th August
I went into the powder room this morning, to find general sadness at the death of Marilyn Monroe. Raine was kneading her pearls with what looked like repressed fury. ‘They killed her. I’m sure of it,’ she said. We all told her to stop being ridiculous, but she wouldn’t let go of her outlandish theories. ‘No one who saw her singing happy birthday to the President in that bead dress could ignore the force-field of attraction between them. It was only a matter of time.’ Poor Raine hasn’t recovered from CNE’s suicide. She refuses to believe that he was guilty of anything and insists he was being framed and couldn’t take the pressure. I imagine Marilyn’s overdose brought it all back again.
Tuesday, 7th August
A detailed report from 007, at last. I was beginning to worry. I always do when they fail to check in as planned. If we hadn’t received something today, the emergency wheels would have been given a greasing, at least, if not nudged into action. Thank goodness, though, I arrived to a long signal on my desk, ‘PERSONAL TO M EX007’, three pages, still encoded into five-letter groups. I alerted M as soon as he got in, and once I’d sorted the rest of the signals for him, I got out my Triple X and started to work on 007’s.
I particularly enjoy his reports. They read more like adventure stories than terse explications of a mission, which I am sure is as much for my benefit as for 007’s; he relies on me to edit out some of his more vivid descriptions before submitting them to M. I still derive immense satisfaction from the process of ciphering and deciphering. Setting the dials, keying in accurately what looks like a jumble of nonsense, then the moment of revelation as it’s transformed into plain text. The thought that these ugly black boxes, so mechanically basic on the one hand, but so fantastically sophisticated on the other, tipped the balance of both wars in our favour – it’s wonderful. The three years that I spent in Comms were never boring; we all worked hard, in an extraordinary atmosphere of camaraderie. I never lost the sense that we were the central pivot of the Firm – with the stations around the world and throughout the building forming the spinning spokes. So now, when a confidential signal is directed to M’s eyes only, I attack it with relish.
For the time I am working on them, I am transported into the events they describe; it’s probably the closest I will ever get to the thrusting tip of this business, active service.
Over the months that follow in this journal, relevant extracts from the papers discovered at the National Archives in Kew have been inserted as close to their correct chronological position as it is possible to put them. In several cases the long reports, filed by 007 on his return to headquarters, served to expand on and elucidate his often cryptic signals from the field; for the sake of clarity, these have been merged into single narratives. The following report by 007 was directed to M, dated 2 August 1962, and deciphered by JM:
Beached safely at Postino Bay 10 miles west of Santiago. The coast was floodlit so I scuttled the boat and made the final approach underwater. At daybreak, I approached the city, where I acquired a vehicle from a private vendor. Santiago is riddled with armed Barbudos – Castro loyalists with untrimmed beards and automatic combat weapons. Security is tight. My papers were checked four times between arriving and leaving the city limits, but although it was transmitted back to their HQ, my identity did not appear to set off alarm bells.
The report proceeded to describe his journey west towards Havana. Across the entire country, he found evidence of strong support and enthusiasm for the revolution and for Castro personally. Nowhere did he detect significant opposition, although how much of that was a result of active suppression and fear he could not tell. Once in the capital, he settled into the Hotel Riviera and started to build a reputation for himself as a hard-living, corruptible businessman with contacts in the Middle European arms trade:
Havana is still overrun with Mafia types, who can only be inches away from confrontation with the Barbudos. At night, the hotels are full of finely dressed men and women gambling and dancing as though there is no tomorrow, which for them there may not be. The rooms at the Riviera have thickened walls, reputedly to mask the sound of gunfire. The beards strut about in fatigues and heavy boots. While they are happy to accept free drinks, they eye the money passing across the baize in a proprietary fashion. It can only be a matter of time before the Mafiosi find their hotels nationalised.
When he dropped the name Caballo into a late-night drinking session with a pair of policemen whose uniforms bore the insignia of Castro’s feared inner guard, he detected crossed glances:
I feel that Caballo must be part of the security forces and am getting closer to him. But these men are wary, of Westerners particularly, and I need to secure their trust. They now believe I have something that they want. I am insisting that I must deal with their commander. A meeting has been set up for next week, but time in Havana is an elastic concept.
Please note that I have been unable to locate a reliable radio transmitter. All embassies are under close surveillance and are thus unsuitable. This message is being delivered by the agency of a friend from Rome in a safe concealing device, but the routing is probably secure for one use only. I will endeavour to find a reliable channel of communication over the next week. Until I do please do not respond via this route. Signed 007.
Friday, 10th August
007’s latest report arrived last night in the diplomatic bag from Washington, just as I was leaving to meet the girls in Bully’s for a birthday drink. I’d not been much looking forward to it; these past few months have been so full of turmoil that I don’t feel I deserve a celebration. So 007’s report arrived at an opportune moment – in any case, thirty-one is hardly an important milestone to mark. This report had been smuggled out by a Swiss diplomatic attaché, coiled into the handle of his razor, and was on M’s desk by the time
he arrived this morning. As soon as he’d read it, he called for an emergency meeting of the Cuba Group, including Head of S, but without Cousin Scott. It seems as if Head of C’s hunches were correct; certainly there are strange happenings in Havana. 007 reported the arrival of scores of Russians, purporting to be agronomists and specialists in farming techniques and animal husbandry, but he’s convinced that some, at least, are soldiers – top brass at that. He saw a couple being driven around in a jeep with Castro’s army chief.
He’d heard rumours that Russian ships had been spotted docking in the major ports close to Havana. He determined to try to verify whether this was true, and if so, the nature of their loads …
In JM’s diary there follows a summary of 007’s report, but for the sake of completeness the relevant paragraphs of the original report have been inserted here, again merged with his final, debriefing report:
I hired a local driver to take me to Mariel, a major port 30 miles west of Havana. He responded favourably to monetary persuasion after initial hesitation; there has been an edict forbidding foreigners from leaving the city boundaries. Fortunately, when we were stopped at the roadblock, the soldier did not look too carefully.
They drove along the coastal road, through semi-industrial flatland. On several occasions they passed army jeeps, and tractors pulling covered trailers, driven by clean-shaven, pale-skinned young men in identical checked cotton shirts rolled up at the sleeves. Once they crossed a long transport caravan heading towards Havana, but the trailers were tightly covered and 007 had no way of determining their load. After an hour they started ascending into the hills:
We saw Mariel first from above: a well-protected bay, the port to the north-east of the town itself, a cluster of small colonial buildings and painted shacks filling the deepest point of a valley heading inland. I disembarked in the centre of town and sat in a café overlooking the main road back to Havana. A steady stream of army vehicles headed to and from the port area – otherwise the streets were noticeably empty of civilians.
Moneypenny Diaries: Guardian Angel Page 14
