‘Turn around, open the door and walk down the passage and into the small room. Sit down at your desk,’ he ordered. I complied. He tucked the gun into his waistband, turned on the desk-lamp and shone it at my face. ‘Who are you?’ I asked.
‘You can call me Boris,’ he replied. ‘I am a friend of Herr “Zach”.’ I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. ‘You should not have planned a welcoming surprise for him. That was stupid.’ He pronounced the first syllable with a strong ‘ssh’. ‘Bugs in the phone, in the light-fittings? Child’s play.’
‘How did you know?’
He gave what passed as a laugh. ‘I know many things about you, Miss Moneypenny. Did you think it was a coincidence that our mutual friend was at that gallery opening?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I see you did.’
‘What do you want from me?’ I asked.
‘It is what you want from us that I am interested in right now. Your father – you want to know about your father. I can tell you all about your father.’
‘Yes, I want to know’ I said. ‘But not if it means being blackmailed by you.’
He gave a bitter laugh. ‘You don’t know what pressure is – yet.’
I saw Rafi appear at the door, still growling. As Boris turned around to see what was making the noise, I jumped up, throwing my inkpot at him. It hit the side of his head, ink splashing over his face and shoulder, but failed to stem his momentum as he flung himself over the desk at me. I managed to dodge out of the way and lunged for the door. His hand grabbed my ankle and I fell to the floor, lashing out with my fingernails. Then he yelled and his grip loosened for a second. I saw Rafi with his jaws clenched around his hand, shaking it. He kicked out and Rafi yelped. Boris kicked him again, as I tried to wrench my leg free. But he was too strong. In no time he had my arms in a vice-like grip and was marching me back into the bedroom, with Rafi shut into the study.
He forced me to strip down to my underclothes, then pushed me back on to the bed. With one knee on my stomach, he trussed up my hands and ankles and tied them to the bed legs. ‘You are making a big mistake, Miss Moneypenny,’ he said in a low, menacing voice.
I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve had enough. Just tell me what you want from me and we can get this over. If it’s Berlin, I can get the papers.’
‘Berlin?’ he sneered. ‘We have come a long way from there. Everyone knows the British stance on Berlin is merely an extension of what the Americans want. You think your secret service is so marvellous, but still you can’t move without your big protector.’ He gave another of his mirthless laughs. ‘No. You are going to tell me how you broke the Pacific cipher and intercepted our traffic last month. You knew our intentions and that is unacceptable to my superiors.’ His pale eyes almost glowed in the half-light and I suddenly realised where I had seen him before: in the park and on the bus, coming home from work. He had been following me, and for months. His was the voice on the telephone the night Frieda was taken ill. I was filled with fury; nothing mattered other than denying this creeping extortionist what he wanted, whatever the cost.
‘I don’t know,’ I said honestly. ‘And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.’ I spat at him and he slapped me across the face, hard, and even while my cheek was stinging I felt a sense of satisfaction at denying his demands. He slapped me again, harder this time. My teeth must have rammed into my inner cheek, as I felt blood pooling in my mouth. I spat it out. His hand was also bleeding profusely, where Rafi had bitten him. He must have noticed as, clutching it with a sneer on his face, he turned to go into the bathroom. I heard water start to flow.
I pulled at my arms; the rope had a bit of give and I was only inches away from the Browning on the bedside table. I bent my head and started tugging on the knot with my teeth. The rope gave another inch and then slipped free from the bed leg. My hands were still bound tightly together, but I could now reach the book, flip it open and pick up the gun.
Suddenly, my ears picked up another sound – the soft scraping of a key being turned in a lock. I froze. Someone was coming in through the front door. I couldn’t take on two of them. But no one else had my key.
For some reason, my mind flashed to R and the evening he had emerged from the kitchen along with the scent of cooking. He had borrowed my spare key, but had he ever returned it? I tried to swallow but couldn’t: if it was R – and suddenly I was convinced it was him – that meant my suspicions had been correct; he was behind this whole horror. I couldn’t bear it. His betrayal felt worse than any other.
I must have been thinking in dream-time, as everything came into my head in the instant I heard the key turn in the lock. Boris was still in the bathroom, the water flowing from the tap; I was still tied to the bed by my feet, my bound hands clasping the tiny gun.
Footsteps approached the bedroom. I pointed the Browning at the doorway, felt my fingers take the pressure on the trigger. I closed my eyes for a second and when I opened them, there he was: R, standing in the doorway. I was ready to shoot, my fingers squeezing tighter, when I looked into his face. His eyes registered genuine astonishment, rapidly replaced by concern. I knew in a flash that I could trust him. I folded my hands over the gun. He opened his mouth to say something, but I shook my head and looked furiously towards the bathroom door. The tap had been turned off. Boris appeared in the doorway and there was a flurry as R leapt on him, knocking him to the floor.
The next second, he was kneeling beside me, untying my hands and kissing my face. ‘Jane, what happ–’ he began, when there was a loud crack and the expression on his face turned to surprise, briefly, replaced by pain, as he sank to the floor. I looked down to see blood seeping through the side of his shirt, where his coat had fallen open. Boris was getting to his feet, moving towards us, his gun in his hand and a murderous look on his face. I didn’t have time to think – I just squeezed the trigger and shot at him, once in the stomach and once in the chest. He lurched towards the bed and fell to his knees.
I tore at my leg ties, dragged Boris into the bathroom and locked him in, then hauled R on to the bed. He was unconscious and still bleeding. I tied a sheet around him and ran into the study to telephone the ambulance and the duty officer at the Office. As I waited for them to arrive, I stroked R’s hair and kissed his forehead and told him I was sorry, over and over again. When the medics came, they lifted him on to a stretcher, before returning with another for Boris. I jumped into the ambulance between them and as I sat holding R’s hand his eyes flickered open. ‘Jane,’ he croaked, ‘I missed you, I came back to say …’
I put my hand over his mouth. ‘There’ll be time enough to say what you want to when you’re better,’ I said. ‘Rest now. Conserve your strength. I’m not going anywhere.’
Thursday, 20th December
It’s hard being at work when I want to stay at the hospital with R. The operation appears to have been a success. They found the bullet: miraculously, it had missed his vital organs. There was some internal bleeding, which the surgeon says has been staunched, and we should know by next week whether the wound has healed properly. R drifts in and out of consciousness, but his temperature is dropping, which can only be a good sign. I have no idea what my feelings for him are, beyond concern, fondness and yes, guilt, but I pray with all my might that he will recover.
Bill has been marvellous about everything. He came straight to the hospital on Thursday night when I called and spent hours holding my hand, listening to me berate myself for mistrusting R and leading him into danger. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he told me again and again. ‘We also had our suspicions about him, which turn out to have been unfounded.’ He looked away from me. ‘We’ll talk about that another time. But you had every reason to be unsure. You mustn’t blame yourself.’ He arranged for Boris to be put under guard and called the Soviet Embassy, who naturally denied all knowledge of him.
At dawn, he said he had to go. ‘I’m needed at the Ministry today to go over the evidence against Prenderghast and I’d better put on a fresh shirt. Don
’t want to let the side down. I’ll go via Ennismore Gardens and pick up your little poet friend and return it to Major Boothroyd. I think we need to find some way of avoiding the paperwork. Let me work on it.’ Then he gave me the keys to his flat and insisted I go back there for a rest before heading up to Cambridge. Reluctantly, I followed his orders; the matron promised to call when R recovered consciousness and suddenly I felt very tired.
I have spent this week rushing between the Office and the hospital. M has said nothing, though I know Bill briefed him on Friday. He probably won’t ever mention it. Zach was spotted boarding a plane to Istanbul the evening of the incident – he must have been listening in and took fright when everything departed from plan. Our doctors say that Boris will make a full recovery. His only visible scar will be on his hand; Rafiki deserves a medal.
Still no news from 007 – something terrible must have happened. I just wish we knew what.
Friday, 21st December
This evening, there was a piece about Prenderghast on the news. They interviewed his parents, who looked shell-shocked and defensive and terribly, terribly normal. They’ve been forced publicly to swallow their only son’s treason and homosexuality – an unappetising concoction, I would imagine. Yet they’re clearly proud of him still, despite what he did; I don’t think it can have sunk in yet. I can’t help but feel sorry for poor P. There’s not much to separate what he did from what I was a cat’s whisker from doing myself. I came so close – on the eve of Lil’s wedding, I nearly gave them the documents they wanted. They tempted both of us with our deepest desires, and mine remain unsatisfied.
I can’t help thinking about it, going over everything that Boris said on that awful evening. It took a few days to shake clear. How did he know about the reception we were planning for Zach? How did Zach know Helena and I were going to the gallery opening? I hadn’t talked about either of these in my flat, so the bug couldn’t have picked them up – and by this time Prenderghast was safely tucked away in his suite at Claridge’s, so he couldn’t have seen the invitation on my desk at work.
I told Bill, who raised his eyebrows. ‘We’ve been afraid of that,’ he said. ‘Both Dorothy and X say it doesn’t add up; Prenderghast must have had a comrade on the inside. But he’s not admitting to anything. We’ll have to hope for better luck with Boris, once he’s well enough for interrogation. We’re going to have a hell of a time of it in the new year.’
Sunday, 23rd December
R is going to be all right. The hospital telephoned yesterday to say that he’d regained full consciousness. I rushed there to find him sitting up in bed eating scrambled eggs and bacon and looking attractively rumpled. He greeted me with a broad smile. ‘Hello, Jane. I came back from Berlin to ask you to spend Christmas with me on a Scottish island. But now …’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘They say I was lucky – as far as luck has any bearing on being shot by some ugly thug one’s never seen before in one’s life. I can’t remember a thing about it – about anything much, in fact. It’s a blessed relief, in many ways. Can we turn the clock back a year, please?’
I started laughing. He was back to being R and at that moment I didn’t want him to be anyone else. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I started to say, when he told me to be quiet. ‘Any time you want a human shield, just call me. This bullet thing’s really not as bad as it’s cracked up to be. And who was that mug who shot me? Now, can we talk about Scotland, please? I know this magical island called North Uist. I think you’d love it there – it’s a little like Africa, except for the weather, of course.’
I leant over to squeeze his hand. ‘I’m not a fool,’ I told him. ‘You can’t expect me to believe it was pure coincidence that you popped back into my life in my hour of greatest need.’
He smiled back at me. ‘Oh, Jane, I wish I could have told you before. I was so close to it, so many times, but then that old training clicked back in …’
My mouth must have fallen open. ‘You mean, you’re …’
‘Yes, one of us. Well, Security Service – at least I used to be. I’m not sure how they’re going to take this unauthorised leave.’
‘You’re not an architect? Did you know all along?’ I felt faint, as my mind raced to review the possibilities.
‘I am, and no I didn’t. I trained as an architect and, from time to time, have worked for architectural practices. And of course I didn’t know about you, until I was too far in to turn away. I started having suspicions early this year, when you were so wary of talking about your job: you reacted as I would have. Then I followed you to work and I knew. A mate of mine from your outfit supplied the details. I should have come clean then – that or broken it off. But I was in love with you. I didn’t know what to do, and everything just started going wrong. There was that awful time when you caught me searching your desk …’
‘Yes, what was that?’
‘Well, our boys had been following a couple of German chaps, suspected agents. I happened to take a look at their log-book and to my total shock, saw that the Germans had been clocked in Ennismore Gardens. Putting two and two together, I guessed you were their target and thought I’d better take a quick look round to try and see whether they’d put anything nasty in your place. Unfortunately, you woke up sooner than I’d expected.’
‘And you kept it all from me?’
‘Oh, Jane, I can’t say how sorry I am. I was truly confused. I couldn’t say anything at my end – at that stage, I was more scared that they would try to break us up than anything else. Some irony, really. In the end, when things between us were falling apart, I applied for a temporary transfer and was placed in Berlin.’
‘I really don’t know what to say,’ I told him.
‘There’s more, I’m afraid. My name …’
‘Not Richard Hamilton?’
He shook his head.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or slap him. ‘I’m going to need some time to think about this. I suppose I am relieved you’re not one of Them.’
‘You thought that?’ He chuckled. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You should be. You should be.’
Lying in bed last night, as I recycled through all the times we’d spent together, searching for clues that I should have picked up, my thoughts alternated between fury – at my stupidity and his deception – and amusement. But I couldn’t stay cross for long: he did what he had to – what, I suppose, I would have done had I found about him first. Then he saved me from Boris. He is really quite an extraordinary man.
Christmas Day, 25th December
I was at the hospital, sharing R’s Christmas lunch (the turkey, predictably, tasted like a dry dishcloth), when I was called to the telephone. It was M. ‘Miss Moneypenny, I’m sorry to have to do this to you again, but I’m going to need you out here this afternoon. Smith is on his way to collect the Chief of Staff. He’ll be at the hospital gates for you in fifteen minutes.’ He put the phone down abruptly.
The road to Windsor was clear – I imagine the whole nation was listening to the Queen’s speech and I was not unhappy to have been given an excuse to avoid that particular feature of the traditional British Christmas. ‘When did you find out?’ I asked Bill.
‘What? About your Mr Hamilton?’
I nodded.
‘We got wind of it a couple of weeks ago. Tanqueray was checking him out in Berlin. We only had confirmation from Five the day of the er … incident. He was loosely connected to the Embassy in Berlin, and apparently went AWOL the previous day. We now know he was on his way to see you in London, but at the time there were fears that he could have been picked up by the other side. We received an All Stations wire asking for any information as to the whereabouts of one or their officers, followed by a list of his current aliases. Tanqueray picked it up and contacted me. I was going to tell you, once this whole thing was over. My best guess is that he heard on the Stasi underground about Boris’s planned visit to you and came to warn you. Jolly good thing, as it turns out. Must say, you would have enjo
yed the look on Troop’s face when he received the news. Probably still wiping the egg off his not-so-smug face.’ We both smiled at the thought.
‘Do you know what this is about?’ I asked, but he shook his head. ‘No, the Old Man merely said he needed us. I’m guessing it might be 007 – he seems to have a knack for spoiling our Christmases.’ As an attempt at levity, it crashed to the floor, leaving both of us to our private fears.
The Silver Wraith swept across the gravel and came to a stately halt outside the front door. Bill rang the old ship’s bell and when Hammond opened the door he told us. ‘The Admiral is just finishing his Christmas lunch,’ and showed us into the Library. It’s a lovely room, with polished mahogany panelling, leather chairs and framed naval cutlasses hanging on the walls. Bill sat down while I walked over to the window and gazed out into Windsor Forest. Silhouetted against the trees in the pale-grey afternoon light, I could make out two grazing deer, so fragile, so beautiful. I made a vow to myself to visit Africa next year.
The door opened and M walked in. He was wearing a blazer over his habitual white shirt and spotted bow-tie. He looked grave. ‘I received a signal from Henderson in Japan a few hours ago,’ he began, without preamble. ‘Three days ago, there was a tremendous explosion in the Fukuoka region. The house of a Swiss horticulturalist was blown to high heaven, killing everyone in sight. This morning, Henderson was contacted by the head of the Japanese secret service, Tanaka, who told him that he feared 007 had been killed in the explosion. Apparently, the owner of this fortress had cultivated a deadly garden of poisonous plants, which had become the favoured spot for suicide tourists. I know – sounds like bloody rubbish to me too. Tanaka wanted this man dead and had persuaded 007 to do his dirty work for him in exchange for the product of the MAGIC 44 – Chief of Staff will fill you in, Miss Moneypenny. And 007, reckless damn fool, rose to the challenge. The bodies of the horticulturalist,’ he consulted a piece of paper, ‘a Dr Guntram Shatterhand – what kind of name is that? – and his wife have been recovered, but there’s no sign of 007, dead or alive. The Japs have been searching the area for the last three days, but didn’t think to tell Henderson before today.
Moneypenny Diaries: Guardian Angel Page 23
