Moneypenny Diaries: Secret Servant

by Samantha Kate

  I arrived at his flat at eight. May answered the door, even managing to raise a smile as she greeted me. ‘The Commander’s in the sitting-room. Please follow me.’ It felt curiously formal, and when I walked in and James rose to greet me, I was pleased that I had chosen my silk Sybil Connolly. I get few enough chances to bring it out from the deeper recesses of my wardrobe. He was wearing a dark navy serge suit, a heavy white silk shirt and his habitual black knitted-silk tie, navy socks and soft black leather moccasins. He looked every bit his former self. He had a slight tan and his blue-grey eyes were alive again with a hint of mischief. People have often described him as having a ‘cruel face’, with ‘cold eyes’, but if you get to know him it’s not hard to locate the emotion behind the surface froideur.

  ‘Champagne, Penny? I’ve got a ’53 Krug Grande Cuvée – there’s not much to beat that. And something to go with it? May, bring the caviar, please.’ I walked over to fetch my glass. ‘You are too spoiling, James,’ I said. ‘To what do I owe this special treatment?’

  ‘It’s all you deserve – and a proper prelude to seduction.’ I laughed. ‘I wanted to thank you, Penny, for standing by me through all this …’

  ‘Well, if you can’t forgive your friends for trying to murder your boss, then what can you do?’

  ‘Seriously, you listened to me and gave me a chance, and you’re here now. I’m not sure many from the Office would be.’

  He sounded uncharacteristically lacking in confidence. I went to join him at the window, where he stood gazing out over the pretty, tree-lined square.

  ‘You’d be surprised. We’re all just relieved to have you back – especially the girls in the typing-pool. They can’t wait to see you and have been emptying the stores of pretty frocks in anticipation of the day you walk back through the Office doors. James, you’re a hero. What you did, in getting rid of Blofeld, was incredible. We all owe you a debt of gratitude.’

  ‘What happened with M …’

  ‘Nothing happened. The Old Man’s still in his chair and fighting fit, and so will you be, soon.’

  We walked over to sit down on an elegant walnut Biedermeier day-bed, upholstered in navy raw silk. James lit a cigarette, and when I frowned at him, he laughed and gave me a squeeze.

  ‘Don’t nanny me, Penny. The doc said to cut down to twenty a day and I’m only failing by five. Anyway, you’re far too pretty to hector, and too young too.’

  ‘And you’re too old to flirt,’ I replied. ‘With a young woman like me, anyway.’

  He laughed again and we chatted easily until May called us into the dining-room to eat. She had produced a feast: smoked salmon washed down with Puligny-Montrachet, followed by beef tournedos in a cream, brandy and green-peppercorn sauce, with fine French beans and pommes dauphinoise. It was quite the most delicious dinner and, when I told her so, she blushed a deep red. ‘Aye took a cooking course while the Commander was away,’ she said. ‘Aye always knew he was coming back.’

  ‘She was determined on that,’ I told James when she left the room. ‘Wouldn’t let anyone into the flat, refused to talk to the solicitors about your will, generally was stubborn and obstructive in a very Scottish way.’

  He smiled fondly at the door. ‘Dearest May. If she was just thirty years younger …’

  We ate, we talked. So much had happened in the year since he left for Japan. I filled him in on R’s return into my life. I was describing the events of last December, in what I hoped was a suitably light-hearted manner, when he suddenly froze. ‘Boris?’ he said. ‘What did he look like?’

  I described him as best I could – his pale eyes, faded red hair and smooth, hairless skin; his broken nose and accented but correct English.

  ‘It couldn’t be … it’s too much of a coincidence. No, definitely not,’ he appeared to satisfy himself.

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘I was picked up by the police in Vladivostok. I suppose I must have looked a sight – a Caucasian dressed in the clothes of a Japanese fisherman. No wonder they were suspicious. They asked me who I was and, when my answers failed to satisfy them, they tried to extract the information by more forceful means. I must have got a bump on my head at some point, because I suddenly remembered that I wasn’t a fisherman – though I still hadn’t a clue as to my real identity. They took me to the local KGB headquarters, a gruesome grey building close to the harbour. The officers there were more refined in their interrogation techniques – but no more pleasant, I must say.

  ‘They took my fingerprints and Belinographed them to Moscow – and it was only after they received the results that they started to treat me more gently. By this time, I think they were convinced that I wasn’t just feigning amnesia. I see now – thanks to Molony and the quacks at The Park – that they must have realised the value of what they had, for they started to treat me very well indeed.’

  May came in to remove our plates and asked whether we were ready for pudding. James told her to hang fire for a while. He poured us both another glass of the excellent Château Grand-Puy-Lacoste red, and continued. ‘In the middle of the night they flew me to Moscow, where I was put up in this small flat in a hideous building on the outskirts of the city. It was comfortable, by Russian standards, but the food was execrable. I barely ate a fresh vegetable for weeks – if you don’t count potatoes or beetroot. I was under full-time guard and only allowed outside for an hour a day, and then with a four-gorilla escort to make sure that I didn’t try to escape. No chance of that. Their surveillance techniques are legendary; everyone is being watched by someone. The only civilian I exchanged a word with during that entire period was Anna, the hatchet-faced housekeeper who came each day to cook for me. She had clearly never learnt even the basic skills of feminine enhancement.’

  He called for May to bring in the pudding. ‘You’re going to love this, Penny. A proper old-fashioned treacle pudding. Forget about your waistline and dig in. May, my darling, you’re a saint.’

  The Scotswoman left with a huge look of pride on her face. ‘She used her own savings to keep this place going y’know. Where was I? Yes, in Moscow – a drab place, by the way: no holiday destination. I’d steer clear if I were you.’

  ‘I’m planning to,’ I told him, but I couldn’t help thinking about Eleanor. She had a Californian’s love of fresh fruit.

  ‘I was interrogated for weeks on end. They took it in turns, but I honestly couldn’t remember a thing. Sometimes they prompted me with stuff that they knew, which helped to dredge up a few nuggets of memory. Nothing of importance. I couldn’t even remember you, Penny. They had to show me your picture. It was several weeks later that I first met Colonel Boris – or that was what he called himself: all KGB officers operate under assumed names. He was different – extremely charming, for a start, and cultured too. His suits were unmistakably Savile Row, and his shoes hand-made. He told me that he had lived in London, Paris and Berlin. He took me to dinner at a Georgian restaurant – we had a private room – where the food was excellent and the drink copious. He told me that I was being moved the following day.’

  ‘What did he look like, your Colonel Boris?’ I asked.

  ‘He also had pale eyes, and spoke good English, but his hair was white-blond and he wore a moustache. You see, it can’t have been the same person. Half the men in Russia are called Boris, and that’s the ones using their real names.’ Despite his assurances, I couldn’t prevent a shiver of apprehension. It is not hard to grow a moustache, and blond hair can always be dyed red.

  James was continuing, ‘I was taken to Leningrad on the overnight train. It was rather wonderful actually. They played the national anthem at midnight and everyone stood to attention. There was tea in samovars at the end of each carriage and women walked up and down selling cigarettes and caviar. I had a compartment to myself – an untold luxury. Boris was in the compartment to my left and the gorillas to my right. They took turns to guard my door – but I had no urge to escape. Where would I have gone? They were my only link with a past I
no longer knew. They’re impressive, Penny – organised, fiercely disciplined and determined to better us in whatever way they can. They fight dirty, too.

  ‘A car met us at the station and I was taken to The Institute. It’s their equivalent of The Park, just more Russian and rather less plush. A beautiful building, nonetheless – one of the few to escape the German bombardment during the last war. They also bashed my brain, but without the Pentothal. Just strapped me down, cupped cathodes on each temple’ – he put an index finger on each side to demonstrate – ‘then, whack. It was not a pleasant experience. Afterwards, to put me in a cooperative mood, I suppose, I would be given a drink and a massage by a beautiful girl – surprisingly, they do have them over there. To tell you the truth,’ he gave a dry laugh, aware of the irony of the phrase, ‘I would have done anything they said. I was their captive both physically and mentally. I had visitors four, five times a day – brain surgeons, top KGB brass. They talked to me about the political situation, how they were working for peace and we were holding the world back.’ He laughed again, but there was no trace of mirth on his face.

  ‘Boris would come each afternoon. It was his job to fill me in on the Firm. He had photographs of everyone: you, M, Bill, Dorothy, Goodnight – how is she, by the way?’

  I told him she was fine; now wasn’t the moment to reveal her departure. I urged him to go on.

  ‘They even had a picture of old Fletcher in the lift. They had detailed plans of the Office, where each section is based, the Registry, the range in the basement – the Powder Vine too. I wonder how they got that one? They seemed to know everything, even the daily special at the canteen. Boris told me all about it. From time to time, he would disappear for a couple of days to Moscow, and on his return he would have something else for me. When I asked him how he knew all he did, he just smiled and said “Vee hef our saucers” – or something like that.’

  ‘You believed everything?’

  ‘I wasn’t in a position to do otherwise. They made it all sound so damn reasonable. I honestly believed’, and here he poured himself a brandy and lit another cigarette, ‘that they had a point. You don’t understand – and I am only now beginning to myself – they blew my brain to pieces and then put it back together again how they wanted it. I was theirs. Bloody bastards. They convinced me that I had devoted my life to working for a warmongering, bloodthirsty operation, and the damned thing about it was that I couldn’t remember a thing to contradict what they said. They told me that I had to strike at the heart of the organisation. Boris said it would be an honour, that I would be striking an almighty blow for peace – or “piss” as he called it.’

  The tension broken, we both started laughing.

  ‘So I was primed, directed and fired. I still can’t believe it. It was as if I was some kind of walking zombie. Mr Big1 would have approved – but, then again, he was one of their men; he probably taught them how to do it. Oh, Penny, now that I’m back to my senses, I need to make amends. I must show M that he can trust me again. I want to destroy them, humiliate them as they did me. I hate them.’ He looked at me, and his eyes, drained of their warmth, glinted coldly in the candlelight.

  ‘Enough of that. I’ve talked too much. Thank you for listening. I needed to get it off my chest. Come on, old girl, let’s go next door and dance. I haven’t danced in a year.’

  Even now, as I recall what he said, I appreciate the effort that it took him – not the most emotional of men – to recount his trials. Sitting there, across the polished mahogany, I was shocked and horrified by what he had undergone, chilled by the stark picture he painted of the inhuman world we inhabit. More than anything, I wanted to take him in my arms and tell him that everything would be all right.

  Monday, 7th October

  James and I are under surveillance – by our own side. Bill asked this morning if I had enjoyed my dinner on Saturday night – just blurted it out, then blushed in an uncharacteristic manner, as if he knew he shouldn’t have asked. I hadn’t told him I was going and I know James hadn’t either. ‘We need to keep an eye on you two,’ he said defensively. ‘Make sure you’re safe and all that.’

  I just looked at him, puzzled as to what I thought. I suppose I should have been reassured, but I wasn’t.

  ‘Bill, do we know if it’s the same Boris?’

  He knew what I was talking about. ‘It’s a possibility, certainly. We had the same question. Moscow’s looking into it.’ I must have shuddered noticeably, as he took my hand and patted it. ‘Please don’t worry about it. It’s a long shot. Just in case, though, we had better get both of you on to the Identicast.’ He sidled out of my office, still embarrassed.

  This evening, he came back in, smiling and waving a piece of paper. ‘I wanted you to be the first to see this, Penny. It’s just come in from Washington. Today, Kennedy signed a treaty with the Russians to limit nuclear tests. You should be proud of yourself. This is a direct result of Cuba. Without you and James, we might never have got to this point.’

  It was lovely of him to say so, but I don’t believe we influenced the course of history, even in the most minor of ways. The President must take the credit – he’s an extraordinary man and it was an honour to have met him. Sometimes I look at my Orange Star and pinch myself. I truly believe he’s going to change the world for the better. Maybe, with his leadership, we will no longer have cause to live in fear of the mushroom cloud?

  Friday, 11th October

  This quarter’s Q Branch report was circulated today,2 as fascinating as ever, crammed with obscure technical information and written in the stilted style of someone for whom English is not a first language. I’ve always maintained that boffins are a different race. Appropriately, considering the prevailing obsessions around this place, it focuses on the KGB. I read it with interest. The KGB is our main enemy, to a large extent our raison d’être. Every day, the greater part of the Firm is dedicated, in some way, to plotting how to infiltrate them, steal a march, better them in some way – while 1,500 or so miles away, in Moscow, they are trying to do the same to us. In a sense, we are mirror images: our aims and objectives, even the way we go about trying to achieve them, are similar but opposite. We have democracy; they have Communism. Each of us believes vehemently in our own system. Rarely do we doubt it, on our side, anyway. Yet, looking at this report, there is so much that we share.

  I hadn’t thought about it in quite that way before. I’ve always assumed that all that is Red is bad, but spending time with Eleanor, and hearing her talk about Kim, has injected some shades of grey into that assumption. How could a man who, by all accounts, is cultured, intelligent, sensitive and a good cook – how could he have devoted his life to a regime that is brutal and repressive? What was it about Redland that led him to sacrifice – and betray – his family, his friends and the country that educated and nurtured him? I am too young, I suppose, to understand the fear of Fascism. Communism has been our enemy for as long as I can remember, but perhaps if I had felt Hitler creeping up behind me, I too would have made for the opposing corner?

  Reading about the level of the KGB’s surveillance and their techniques, I couldn’t help but think of Eleanor. She had told me about the instructions Kim had given her for leaving the country, the signals that she had to chalk on the wall of the alley near her apartment. At the time, it sounded like Boy Scout stuff to me, not the way to plan one’s future, but reading this report, it appears that it was standard KGB procedure. Is she followed by some invisible person every time she steps foot outside their flat? I assume so. That being the case, does she know, and does she perform her own version of ‘dry-cleaning’3 to lose her tail? Surely Philby must be aware of his constant shadows, but how much does he share with her about the realities of their new life? Despite myself, I hope for Eleanor’s sake that being back with him has lived up to her expectations. I can only imagine what it must be like, the questions she must be asking, the doubts she must suppress every time she looks into the face of the man she once t
rusted implicitly. I hope she finds some way of letting me know how she’s getting on.

  I think of her when I step outside my front door, knowing that our people are out there, somewhere, watching me – and perhaps theirs too? Was it me they were following in Dorset, or R? The thought of them is with me constantly; I feel their breath on my spine.

  Sunday, 13 th October

  I woke to the first frost, early this year. I walked around the corner to buy the newspaper and read it over hot chocolate in the brasserie. Jean Cocteau and Edith Piaf both died the day before yesterday: the poet and the little sparrow.

  R has gone. Our relationship sometimes seems like one long chain of farewells. Is it a chain made of paper or of metal? We met yesterday for lunch, then after a spot of window-shopping (was R performing his own subtle version of surveillance evasion, I wonder?) caught a bus to Richmond Park. He had brought a kite and we ran around for hours before it became permanently entwined in a tree, much to our amusement. On the way home, we stopped at a small restaurant in Barnes that we’d never heard of, nor ever seen before. The food was excellent. We ate coq au vin and drank a bottle of red wine. Although these times happen far too rarely, there will be a hole in my life when he’s gone.

  Over an excellent pear tart, he took my hands in his and said that he was determined to sort out the situation. ‘Please take care,’ I entreated him.

  He smiled. ‘Of course. Don’t worry about me. Promise me you’ll be careful too, and when I get back, we’ll …’

  He leant forward to kiss me. We’ll what, I wonder? I still don’t know what I want. I would love to be with him more, but the Firm means a great deal to me. For ten years now, it has been my family, my friend and my life.

  When R left early this morning, to get his bag and go to the airport, I didn’t ask when he would be back.

  Sunday, 20th October

  Weekends are lonely places without R. I wanted to go up to Cambridge to see Helena, but she called on Friday to say that Lionel has the lethal combination of flu and a book deadline and has quarantined the house. She sounded exasperated. We talked again about going to Kenya together. She won’t be able to go until L’s book is finished, but that should be within the next month or two. Maybe then he'll agree on a wedding date? This damn book’s been an excuse for perpetual delay.