Moneypenny Diaries: Secret Servant

by Samantha Kate

  ‘By one of those great strokes of fortune, she mentioned her desire to see her Ma to one of our people over there – and there aren’t many of us, so it was a piece of luck indeed. He duly reported back and, bingo, we’ve got her in our pocket.’ He beamed at me.

  ‘So,’ I said slowly, ‘you’ve got to spirit her out somehow and slip me into her place.’ Inside, I was shaken by the mention of East Berlin. R had been killed there. To me, it seemed a city of evil. Head of Q hadn’t noticed my unease. He was fiddling with some unidentifiable gadget piece as he continued.

  ‘Clever girl. It’s not going to be an easy operation. They can’t know she’s gone, but if we do the change-over almost simultaneously, no one should be the wiser, particularly if you leave the city immediately. We’re setting up this end. One of ours has gone up to Scotland to meet Ma d’Arcy – damn silly name: sounds like a Gyppo fortune-teller, if you ask me – and she’s on board. Given us photographs and all sorts of background on her darling Commie daughter. Look here, not bad for a Red, is she?’

  He handed me a photograph. The face of a young woman stared at me with direct brown eyes, knitted brows and a look of determination on her face. She had high cheekbones and rich chestnut, tangled hair and was strangely beautiful. Had R met her, I couldn’t help wondering, before dismissing the thought as absurd.

  ‘Yes, it’s an old photograph. If we give your locks a bit of a tint, drag you through a hedge backwards and wipe the smile off your face, it won’t be a bad likeness. Good-looking girl. We should be receiving some more recent photographs sometime soon. Our man in East Berlin is busy making her acquaintance and, by all accounts, she’s not doing much resisting.’ He chuckled again. ‘Agent 734. Handsome son of a gun. Run along now and study the file. Buzz me if you’ve got any questions. We’ll test you next week, when you come down to he equipped. By then, hopefully, the Planners should have done their bit, the Doctor will be on board and you’ll be ready to go. It’s not easy, slipping into someone else’s clothes. I do wish I knew what you’re up to, dear girl. Please be careful.’

  I gave him a hug and left. As I read the file this evening, it seemed at the same time more possible and yet more preposterous. Would I seriously be able to pull off being an art historian? I speak very little German, for a start, I’ve never been to Berlin and I have no desire to do so now, after what happened. I don’t have a clue about religious art and I loathe cats. Then what happens when I get to Moscow? Since the plan was first mooted, Boris’s face has kept slipping, unbidden, into my mind. I push it away, telling myself that Moscow is a huge place, that I’ll be there under an assumed identity, that the chances of running into him are virtually zero, but that doesn’t banish the fears. In Berlin, will I be visited by R’s ghost? I suppose I will have to trust M and Head of Q and Bill. Anyway, what’s the worst that could happen?

  Thursday, 16th January

  The last ten days have been extraordinary. I wake up thinking about my alter ego and, after a day studying her file, looking at photographs, reading her school reports, childhood diaries, letters home, as well as her more recent published work, I go to bed rolling her name around on my tongue. I eat and sleep Rose d’Arcy. Thanks to the Q Section barber, I now have her hair, rather like simulated unkemptness. I look in the mirror and feel like my younger self, unfettered by responsibility and maturity. I have learnt an extraordinary amount about Byzantine art, more than I thought I wanted to know, and the more I learn, the more I appreciate it. When I get back, perhaps I’ll treat myself to a trip to Istanbul? R and I often talked about going together. I still find cats faintly insidious, though, having borrowed Pamela’s for the week, I can put up a good enough show, if tested.

  I find it hard to believe I’m going. The mechanics of my entry to Moscow are from a childhood spy game rather than the real, dangerous world of Cold War espionage. The Planners assure me that getting across the Wall into the East will be a piece of cake; it’s the reverse operation for my ‘mirror’, as Dr Desmond insists on calling her, that will prove more testing. The success of my penetration will hinge on her successful extraction. If it works, it will be a straight exchange – the German-speaking academic for the English secretary.

  734 has apparently made excellent headway. Dr d’Arcy is co-operating fully with the plan to get her out, though she’s no idea that I’m coming back in her place. Under his instructions, she has booked a train ticket to Moscow and a hotel room when she gets there. She obtained the relevant visa ‘for artistic research’ with little trouble, 734 reported. Reading between the lines, she has fallen under the spell of his youthful physique. Once in the West, she’ll be flown directly back to Brize Norton and, from there, taken by helicopter to her mother’s home near Inverness. I’ve no idea if – and, if so, how – she is planning to return. I, on the other hand, most certainly plan to.

  I can’t help but feel excited about it, though I still dread Berlin. This total immersion in the mission has been a partial distraction from the absence of R, though I still think about him constantly. I’m looking forward to seeing Eleanor again, assuming I can make contact. I will: M has told me that there is no room for doubts. I relish the thought of adventure, of starting again in a strange place, as a different person. Most of all, I suppose, I’m looking forward to feeling useful.

  That is not to say that I have no fears. Some nights, as I lie in bed, I start shaking uncontrollably; I dread to think what my neighbours imagine I’m doing.

  In exactly two days, I will be on my way across the Berlin Wall, travelling against all sensible traffic. Helena and Lionel came up last night, to say goodbye and pick up Rafiki; he’ll enjoy the semi-rural break. They pointedly asked no questions about where I’m going, though I could see Helena aching with curiosity. She satisfied herself with a quip about my new ‘hair un-dresser’ before begging me to make sure I’m back for their wedding. I will be, I pray. Now I’m as ready as I can be. I have my hairbrush camera and invisible, heat-reactive ink. I have a long list of signal sites and fallback plans for evacuation, written in tiny writing and rolled up in cotton wool in my sponge-bag.

  All I need is rest.

  Saturday, 18th January

  The car arrives in half an hour to take me to the airport. I hardly slept last night. R’s face kept trespassing in my dreams. Bill grabbed me as I left the Office and tried to persuade me not to go. He said he knew it was too late, that it would probably just increase my fears, but that he had to try. ‘Jane, Jane, is there anything I can do to change your mind?’ he pleaded.

  I told him that M would call that sort of talk sedition and that it could cost him his job.

  Bill looked suddenly sad. ‘In the end, what’s the job?’ he asked. ‘Set against everything else, it’s just a great big game.’ I was surprised: I had never before heard him utter even a word against the Office. Then he seemed to catch himself. He smiled and embraced me hard and then held me out in his arms and looked serious.

  ‘Please promise me that you’ll take care of yourself. No unwarranted risks, no rash bravado. You’re more important than ten Philbys. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Do you understand?’

  I just nodded, but I’m not sure I did.

  Monday, 20th January

  There is no turning back. I’m on a train bound for Moscow, clad in the clothes and character of Rose d’Arcy. The events of the last two days hardly feel real; if it wasn’t for the almost audible beating of my heart, beneath the layers of grey and brown wool, imbued with the scent of another woman, I would think I was in a dream.

  I arrived in West Berlin on Saturday afternoon, just as dusk was settling on the city. I was met at the airport by an agent from Station WB, who introduced himself as Fred and drove me into the centre. At first glance, there was little to tell that this bustling, apparently affluent metropolis was essentially an island in the East. The roads were full of new cars, the broad avenues lined with shops, their lights blazing multi-hued in the approaching darkness. There was
nothing to distinguish the people walking along the pavements from the streams of workers leaving offices in London, Paris or New York.

  I commented on this to Fred, when he turned to look at me and said, ‘Just wait for it – only a couple more minutes.’ Before I could ask what ‘it’ was, we rounded a corner and there in front of us, topped with rolls of barbed wire and covered in graffiti, was the Wall. I don’t know what I was expecting. I’ve seen it in so many pictures, but I suppose I still thought of it as somehow wall-like, with bricks and cement, not this hideous, monolithic concrete barrier, tall and smooth and forbidding. There was a small crowd of protesters on the Western side, holding banners and chanting. Several women were prostrated against the Wall, weeping. On the other side, I could just make out the drone and dust of huge bulldozers and wrecking-machines, bludgeoning down houses and apartment buildings.

  ‘This is Bernauer Strasse,’ Fred told me. ‘For the first weeks and months after the Wall went up, people on the other side would leap out of second- and third-floor windows in an attempt to get here. The people on this side held out huge blankets and piles of mattresses to help them, but many were still killed. Now those buildings are being knocked down. This barrier, overnight, separated wives from husbands, mothers from their children. Apart from the fortunate few who made it over, they will slowly become strangers to each other, divided not only by the Wall, but by politics, ideology, a different way of living. Did you know, on the other side, there are no maps of the West? The city, for them, ends at the Wall; beyond, there’s only blank paper. It’s a potent symbol of life behind the Iron Curtain. Looking forward to your trip?’

  I tried a half-smile, which withered before it reached my mouth. ‘What time do I go?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re planning on 1700 hours tomorrow, as long as we get the go-ahead from 734 on the other side. We’ve decided the easiest way is a straight swap. We take you over with the passport you’re travelling on and get you an evening visitor’s pass. We deliver you to a safe house to wait while the photographs are swapped, then she’ll get your passport and an escort out, and you’ll receive her documents, plus a bag of clothes and books. You will not meet. She will have no idea of your presence here. Does that sound good to you?’

  I nodded, even though I knew the question was only a polite formality and the thought of losing my British passport filled me with disquiet. ‘In the meantime, we’ve booked you into a nice guest-house just off the Kurfürstendamm, where you can get some rest. You can’t bank on sleeping much tomorrow.’ He must have read the look of doubt in my eyes. ‘I’ve got something to help you tonight. A special present from Head of Q. Before that, though, you’ll want to eat. There’s a host of restaurants near your hotel, and if you want any company …’ He let the offer hang in the air, until I thanked him and said I’d rather be on my own.

  We drew up outside a tall building. He carried my small holdall into the lift cage, pushed the button for the third floor and held out an envelope. ‘Well, I’ll say cheerio then until tomorrow. A room is booked under your name. There’s some cash in here, along with the sleeping-draught and my contact numbers. Please do not hesitate to call me at any time, day or night. I’ll report your safe arrival to HQ and, if I don’t hear from you before then, I’ll be back here to meet you at 1400 hours tomorrow to run through the procedure once more. In the meantime, please try to rest.’ He shook my hand, then clanked shut the lift door and sent me on my way.

  With the aid of a grain of Seconal, I slept better than I have for months. It was already light when I woke and after a cold shower my head felt miraculously clear. I ate breakfast, picked up a map from the front desk and set out for a bracing walk. I had intended to stay fairly close to the hotel, but I found myself being pulled back towards the Wall. It was a magnetic compulsion I couldn’t fight, as if I was being drawn to the last place where R was alive. I jumped in a taxi and asked to be taken to the Tiergarten, near the Reichstag. As we drove up the central avenue, I could see it ahead of me, masking all but the pelmet of the Brandenburg Gate. I got out and stood gazing at it once more, wondering at the demented logic that had split not only this city, but the world in two. This Wall is what the Office is all about, it drives our thoughts and our plans, and fuels our fears. I was about to cross it. Somewhere on the other side R had been killed. I realised I didn’t know exactly where.

  The afternoon briefing sent my heart shooting into my mouth, where it stayed as I was picked up in the car of an off-duty American army captain. ‘Look like you’re out for an evening of sightseeing,’ he drawled. ‘I come over often and they rarely check me, but if they do, I’ll say you’re my friend and as long as they don’t take it into their tiny bureaucratic heads to check your identity somehow, it should be plain sailing.’ We were driving up Friedrichstrasse. Ahead I could see American flags and two tanks flanking a boom. ‘Checkpoint Charlie,’ my companion announced. ‘Busiest route from West to East. Kiss your ass goodbye!’ I raised my eyebrows a fraction and tried to look in the mood for a party as, with a salute and a smile, we were waved straight through the American gate. We then drove across a bare gash of earth, possibly fifty yards wide – No Man’s Land. Ahead, with the wall looming on either side, were the East German guards.

  This time our reception was chilly, despite my companion’s attempts at jocularity. The soldiers were sharply uniformed and accompanied by an officer in long boots and a greatcoat, who barked out a series of questions, his breath exploding in mushroom clouds of smoke in the cold night air. He poked his torch through the window at me for what seemed like an age, the beam caressing me up and down in an almost indecent fashion. Inside, my stomach was squirming as I battled to fix a smile on my face. He barked an order and, with a lazy salute, the American handed over my passport and a form I assumed to be a visitor’s pass. These he studied with concentration, alternating glances between me and the photograph in the passport. Then the officer asked another question and my companion gave a quick retort, put his hand on my thigh and leant over to plant a kiss on my lips. The soldiers at the window burst into mirthless laughter. Even the officer smiled, gave a ghost of a wink and waved us through.

  We sped off and it was only once we were well clear of the gates that the American drew the car to a stop and turned to me. ‘Please accept my apologies, ma’am. Can’t say it wasn’t a pleasure, but still it was beyond the bounds of polite behaviour. That Stasi fellah was giving me the willies. I thought for a minute he was going to haul us out of the car and interrogate us. Fortunately I managed to defuse the situation.’

  ‘What exactly did you say?’ I asked.

  ‘That, ma’am, I’d prefer you didn’t know. We’re through, which is the main thing. Now I’m just going to have to hold thumbs that he’s off duty by my return trip. After the look he gave you, he’s not likely to fall for a substitute. We’re going to drive around a bit, stop here and there, as if I’m pointing out the sights, then, when I’m absolutely sure we’re not being tailed, I’ll deliver you to the safe house.’

  ‘Dry-cleaning?’ I asked.

  ‘Spot on,’ he replied.

  An hour and a half later, I’d had opportunity enough to compare East with West. The gulf between them, represented by that monstrous Wall, could not have been more glaring. This side, there was no bustle and no bright lights – other than the powerful searchlights trained on the Wall and the barricades of wire and tank traps layered a quarter of a mile into the city. There was little traffic on the streets, and what there was belonged to the army. People seemed to trudge along the pavements, muffled in dark coats, hats pulled hard over their faces. When a tank trundled past, few raised their heads to look. There were no open shops, no restaurants, just the occasional dingy café or beer-hall. In less than two decades since the war’s end, what was once a great and united city had divided into soot and diamonds. It was extraordinary that the two could coexist, so similar in formation, yet so far apart.

  Eventually, we drew up outside a small bar
on a quiet street on the outskirts of the city. My American had explained that it was owned by dissidents running a covert escape line to the West. ‘I don’t know how long it’ll last before they’re turned in,’ he’d said. ‘In this country, your neighbours and friends are all possible spies. However, we should be OK for tonight.’ He escorted me through the bar and up the back stairs to a small room, with a bed in one corner, on which were laid out an assortment of shapeless garments – Rose d’Arcy’s I assumed. He told me to change quickly out of my clothes, which he would deliver to my ‘mirror’ together with my doctored passport. Someone would be back for me in a couple of hours. ‘Once I’m safely over the border with my charge, you’ll be in the clear,’ he said. ‘Your guys are handling it from there.’

  A kind-faced old German woman brought me a cup of tea and motioned that I should rest. I lay down on the narrow cot and closed my eyes. Sleep was never going to be an option. I still felt my heart beating overtime and my muscles were coiled with tension. Images flicked behind my eyes like a slide-show; fragments of imaginary conversations I would have as Rose d’Arcy crowded unbidden into my head. I willed myself to relax, but the next hours, I knew, would be crucial. If they didn’t manage to get my doppelganger out safely, my future hung in the balance. The plan was so tightly strung, it allowed for no deviation.