Caught In a Cold War Trap

by Miller Caldwell

  I came clean.

  ‘The Russian Embassy?’ she said raising her voice.

  ‘Yes, well you know I studied Russian, I speak and write the language?’ I said as if butter would not melt in my mouth. It was information she knew anyway.

  ‘Yes, but…’ she stuttered.

  ‘Yes, I know. London seems far away, but there’s nothing definite. I can’t imagine they are going to offer me a job down there. After all, if it was a job offer, the letter would have said so. Wouldn’t it?’

  She nodded slowly, glum-faced. I came close and wrapped my arms around her shoulders. ‘Perhaps I should have studied medicine,’ I whispered into her ear.

  She turned her face and kissed my cheek. ‘God no, we need someone who isn’t a doctor in the family.’

  Her words should have appeased me. Instead, there was a hint in how she said about ‘in the family’ which made me feel uneasy. She had arrived at that point before me. In truth, I was very much unsure of what lay ahead for me, or if it would be with Morag. I hoped my confused feelings did not show.

  The early train journey down south was uneventful. I passed the time trying to identify what different passengers did. Business diaries seemed ubiquitous but gave nothing away. Their newspaper choice did.

  I had lunch in the dining coach. As the waiter, in a white jacket, approached with the terrine of soup I noticed I was the youngest diner by far. He lodged his foot against the table leg with his thigh resting on the table as he served his ladle into my soup plate. My finances allowed for this luxury and I suppose it made me feel important.

  Shortly after 2 p.m. the train arrived at Euston station. I took the district line to Bayswater and proceeded along the road of the same name. There bearing down on me was the red background of a flag, with the gold hammer and sickle beneath a gold star—the flag of the Soviet Union.

  I entered through the iron gates and saw the light coffee coloured stone building. I climbed twelve steps and entered the embassy. I approached the reception desk with a smiling blond woman eyeing my approach.

  ‘Good afternoon, can I help you?’ she asked in her guttural Muscovite voice. After I greeted her in Russian I told her I had a letter and took it from my jacket. I handed it to her. She seemed to speed read its contents.

  ‘A moment please,’ she said lifting the telephone. ‘Василий Чазов.’

  I heard her ask for Vasily Chazov, the author of my letter. I looked forward to meeting him. She replaced the receiver and turned towards me. ‘Mr Chazov will be ready for you in a moment.’

  Pictures of Leonid Brezhnev adorned the wall opposite me. He had been the president since my original Jura letter to Radio Moscow, all those years ago. I did not have to wait long.

  ‘Come this way please,’ she ordered and I followed like a collie dog. We walked along a corridor filled with framed photographs of other Soviet leaders before abruptly stopping as we turned the corner. She knocked on the dark wooden door. She waited a moment with her ear to the door then entered.

  ‘Mr Harvie, come,’ she said with an arm welcoming me.

  Vasily Chazov was a ruddy-faced cherub of a man—almost too large for his light grey suit. He was strong and of good height, with the apparent charm of a ladies’ man.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, at last, Mr Harvie,’ he said rising from his seat and offering his hand.

  I shook it firmly. ‘More so I,’ I replied. ‘You secured my financial affairs when I was at university. That was very much appreciated.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said smiling at me. ‘Many congratulations on your degree. It is a significant milestone, Robert.’

  I smiled at him as I sat down. First name terms already. A bit premature for me to follow suit, I decided.

  ‘Modern languages. Great skill and much in demand these days,’ he continued.

  ‘I was wondering whether I could be a school teacher, sharing my language skills with the next generation.’

  He nodded, stroking his chin. ‘An admirable thought,’ he said and then his face took on a more quizzical look. ‘I thought a young man like you might want to see a bit of the world first.’

  ‘Naturally, but I haven’t thought about that. I have a girlfriend back in Scotland to consider.’

  ‘Ah yes, Morag. Still a few years to go for her before she qualifies, not so?’

  I hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes, a few years to go yet,’ I said knowing he saw me thinking how he knew about Morag. He smiled and opened a box of cigarettes. He offered me one. I shook my head. He lit his cigarette and sat back in his chair. He had two cushions behind him. The smoke rose to the ceiling.

  ‘You wonder how I know about Morag?’ he asked with a slight smirk of a smile.

  I nodded, not finding the words to indicate my surprise, my intrigue and my interest.

  ‘Olga told me. She is my niece.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said not really understanding how or why Olga’s letters had come his way. Nor why Olga had never told me about her uncle. But soon the conversation changed.

  ‘I suppose you are still wondering why I thought we should meet?’

  Once more I nodded, but my senses were sharp and I paid even greater attention this time.

  ‘I’d like to offer you a job.’

  ‘A job? Really?’

  ‘Yes, a job in West Africa, Ghana to be precise.’

  Did I hear right? My eyes narrowed in disbelief. ‘Africa! My goodness. But…but what would I do there?’

  ‘Let me make it clear, this job had been cleared by Leonid Brezhnev, the President himself.’

  His eyes pierced mine. He wanted to see my response. But he did not wish to hear me yet. He gave me a history lesson.

  ‘You remember October 1962? The American’s attempted to overthrow Fidel Castro at the Bay of Pigs? It was a disaster. So Castro asked us to help out as the so-called Cuban Missile crises ensued.’

  ‘Yes I was 11 at the time. It was a frightening time,’ I recalled. For almost a fortnight it felt the end of the world might come about as the giant political powers stood up to each other.

  ‘President Kennedy and Comrade Khrushchev played games. But Russia was far from Cuba. We needed a half-way refuelling base to aid Castro. Guess where we found it?’

  A picture of the world rotated in my mind and then I saw a possibility. ‘Was it Ghana?’ I asked

  ‘Right the first time, but not in its capital, Accra. We got permission to use the large airport at Tamale in the north of the country—the dry undeveloped north. It became a Russian base for our aircraft to refuel on their way to Cuba. Kwame Nkrumah was keen to get Russian aid and we gave him some agricultural machinery into the bargain. The British never supported him, so he became our friend.

  ‘Today, the airport is underused. It is mainly a domestic route, only a few planes land in a week. The locals are poor; they travel by road—no matter how dangerous that can be. Many travel south to eke out a living.’

  ‘I still don’t see how I could work there,’ I said hoping I looked sufficiently interested and vacant at the same time.

  ‘We need to open the airport up, for our use. Make our presence felt. The north of Ghana has one crop that never fails. Monkey nuts. You know groundnuts or you call them, peanuts—not so? They grow by the wayside as well as in scrub lands. They can produce groundnut oil, it has great potential.’

  ‘When you say ‘potential,’ in which market and how much groundnut production is there?’

  He smiled at me. ‘Good questions. The health benefits of peanut oil include: better skincare, lower cholesterol levels, improved heart rates and a stronger nervous system. It also boosts cognitive function, strengthens the immune system, and lowers blood pressure. Need I say more?’

  ‘Wow, that’s amazing. But why don’t the Ghanaian people export it themselves?’

  He smirked. ‘They just roast the nuts and eat them. None of them sees the potential. We provided the technology and production know-how. That’s where you come i
n. You, Robert, will be the manager of the Tamale Pioneer Groundnut Export Company.’

  I guffawed. ‘But I know nothing about business, no idea how to get the groundnuts and have no financial or administrative skills.’ Sweat was beginning to congregate on my brow.

  ‘I said you would be the manager. Not the General Manager. Igor Utechin is there already, he will show you the ropes. He is expecting you. His English is at times limited. He is from Yekaterinburg. He needs an English speaker and someone who speaks Russian. Are you interested?’

  My mind could not work fast enough. ‘I think I can’t answer yet. I’d need to talk to Morag.’

  His smile did not disappear. It grew larger. ‘She could do her elective weeks at the Korle Bu Teaching hospital in Accra. We could fly you down each weekend. Now that would help out, not so?’

  ‘Well maybe. But what if I turn down this very kind opportunity?’ I asked with a lump of fear in my throat.

  His smile disappeared. ‘Come, come Robert. We did not fund your education for nothing. It’s time to pay back some, isn’t it?’ he said, his manner both threatening and paternal. ‘Our conditions are good. You’ll have an annual leave of one month. We fly you back home after three years. A salary in cedis, the local currency, and £150 a month put into your account in Scotland.’ His smile seemed sincere, yet his poise unsettled me.

  In fact, I felt trapped. I could not see a way out. I had landed myself a job, for which I was thankful, but his tone had changed and for the first time those student cheques came with conditions.

  He rose from his seat and went to a locked cabinet. He opened it. Two glasses appeared and then a bottle of vodka. He poured and offered me a drink. The glass was cut crystal. He stood in front of me and clicked my glass. ‘To your decision, by tomorrow.’

  ‘By tomorrow?’ I said. ‘Then I must be on my way to find a place to stay overnight.’

  He shook his head. ‘We have a hotel for you. Send the bill to me.’

  I gulped the rest of the vodka down and returned the glass to his desk. I ought to be grateful, but I wondered if I was destined for darker things.

  My stay was at the London Chesterfield hotel in Mayfair. After a sumptuous steak meal served with panache. I had an ice cream coated by warm chocolate sauce served over exotic fruit and then a coffee. Throughout this dinner, I tried hard to find the words I needed. Then I returned to my room, sat on the seersucker blue bedspread and telephoned Morag.

  ‘Hi darling, Robert here.’

  ‘Hi pet, where?’

  ‘The Chesterfield hotel in Mayfair.’

  ‘Mayfair wow. Why?’

  ‘Well, I was offered a job.’

  ‘In London?’ she fired back with smoking gun rapidity.

  ‘London? No…’ I said twirling the telephone cord around my fingers

  ‘That’s a relief. So where, Glasgow?’ she suggested with a charming lilt in her voice. The line went silent for a moment. The time had come to break the hard news.

  ‘I’ve been offered the appointment of manager at the Pioneer Groundnut factory in Tamale, northern Ghana.’

  ‘What?’ she almost screamed. ‘You are joking surely,’ she said in a very slow tortured voice. ‘You’ve no idea what a manager does and in Africa. Good god.’

  ‘I know but I’ll be shown the ropes. There is a man in overall charge.’ I sensed a frown was appearing on her forehead. ‘And the good news is that you can come out to the teaching hospital in Accra during your elective period. Korle Bu Teaching Hospital, it’s called. That would be good.’

  ‘Hang on. Groundnut factory in Ghana? I just can’t believe this. Er…so how long would you be in Africa for?’

  ‘There’s one month’s home leave.’

  I untwisted the telephone cord, stood up and gazed unfocussed out of the window.

  ‘So, if you take this job that means years without you?’

  ‘I’ll write regularly,’ I pleaded. But the line went dead. I knew she was upset and I ended the call. It would be a long night.

  Chapter 4

  Making a Break

  I was back in the Embassy by half past nine the following morning. I must have crossed at least four roads on my way over but I could not remember doing so. My morning walk was accompanied by the sounds of busy traffic but it was muffled. I was engrossed in what I might face that morning.

  Comrade Chazov was in a serious mood. He sat crunched up in his swivel chair. He spoke in Russian, of course. He told me a passport for Ghana had been ordered for me. Instinctively, I told him my passport was in Glasgow. He leered at me.

  ‘Your Russian passport—and you will have diplomatic status, so no need for a British visa.’

  That made me a Russian subject. How easily I had slipped into that role, one which was deeply uncomfortable. God, what the hell was happening to me?

  ‘So, Africa. Are you set to go?’ Comrade Chazov asked, and he sat back to hear my answer. I was slow to reply.

  A multitude of questions filled my mind. Yes, what an experience Africa would be and Ghana was a Commonwealth country. I’d be welcomed but as a Russian citizen? Just what was I doing?

  ‘I… I… I just can’t believe how quickly this is happening. Does this mean I’m no longer British? I asked in a strained voice. ‘How can I explain that to Morag? How will my parents react?’ Comrade Chazov saw the anxiety in my face.

  ‘Relax, Robert. You will still be Scottish, I mean British. But to get you into Ghana and working with a Russian in Tamale, it makes sense to have a Russian passport, not so?’

  I relaxed. I saw the sense in what he said. However, that was just one matter dealt with.

  ‘Preparation will take a bit of time. You will need yellow fever injections and some anti-malarial pills too, but we will arrange that.’

  ‘So will I have time to go back to Scotland?’

  ‘Yes, you can go tomorrow, for a week if you like. Let your family know you have accepted a job to produce groundnut oil. No other details are required.’

  ‘Then I can get a train back tonight,’ I said feeling I needed time to come to terms with this development.

  ‘No tomorrow morning. One of our embassy doctors will see you this afternoon and give you your yellow fever injection and some Malarone. You will have to start that course immediately to build up your immunity against malaria,’ said the avuncular Russian

  ‘Malaria?’

  ‘Yes, you don’t want to catch that, do you?’

  I recalled West Africa is known as the white man’s grave. God, I hoped I would survive and not be that White Man.

  ‘So, how long will I be there?’

  Comrade Chazov sucked an invisible sweet as he contemplated his answer. ‘It may be two, could be a three -year tour, with a break in the middle. That’s common for the white people in West Africa.’

  I thought how the last two years of university had flown by. Anyway, it wasn’t a prison sentence; in my mind, it was becoming an opportunity.

  ‘So tomorrow morning, Glasgow?’

  ‘Yes of course, but you must return by next Thursday night. Your flight to Accra is on Friday morning.’

  ‘From Heathrow?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes Robert, Heathrow,’ he replied. He thought for a moment before asking, ‘One thing I should have asked. Do you have any allergies?’

  I didn’t need to think about that. ‘Chocolate, anything with chocolate—it brings me out in hives, horrible hives,’ I said recalling the last time I ate some chocolate, which had been eight years ago. ‘I can’t even take chocolate cake,’ I added for good measure.

  ‘Interesting, chocolate,’ he said writing as he spoke.

  Stations flew by in a blur as the train progressed north. Towns and fields had a regular sequence to follow but my mind lost interest in their sameness, that morning.

  Had I not accepted the money in my first year at university I’d be facing a class hoping to learn some French or Spanish. Only senior classes might wish to learn Russian. But I h
ad slipped into an unknown world. Well, unknown except I’d be in Africa in a week in a job for which I had no training or experience—and I knew the separation would strain my relationship with Morag. It was to her I had to make my first visit.

  I knocked on the door of her flat. From inside I heard the call of ‘coming.’ My heart thumped like a marauding elephant—my mind was already in Africa. Then the door opened.

  ‘Robert, darling. What a surprise.’

  I hugged Morag with a strength which surprised me. Could this be our last embrace?

  ‘Yes, took the train this morning. I didn’t want to disturb your classes.’

  She kissed my cheek then separated abruptly.

  ‘Let me make you a coffee—I need to know more about these plans you have,’ she said.

  She took two mugs from the kitchen cupboard and spooned in some granules of instant coffee. I noticed her mug had a half-risen sun with the text New Horizons. Mine simply stated Coffee Mug. As I poured in a splash of milk, the inquiry began.

  ‘So, Robert, this job is not just about you, is it? It’s about us.’

  I nodded as I sat down on the sofa. Morag did not sit beside me. She sat opposite to concentrate on interrogating me about my plans.

  ‘Did you really want this job, or was your hand forced?’

  I smiled and nodded at the same time. Morag was perceptive.

  ‘A manse son, with apparently no shortage of money. Didn’t that seem odd to you?’ I asked.

  ‘Now that you say it…’

  ‘I’ve led a double life for almost six years now.’ Then I launched into my downfall, starting with the trigger on that lonely island, Jura. Morag listened as if assessing the demeanour of a mental health patient contemplating suicide.

  When I took breath, after some fifteen minutes, she said, ‘It’s going to be hard, very hard for us.’

  My nod was minimal. ‘I’m at a loss what to say other than, Morag, you are my true love and I’d not sacrifice that for anything.’