Caught In a Cold War Trap

by Miller Caldwell

  I was sitting at my desk when I began to smell burning. I stood up and headed towards the glass louvers to locate the source of this nasal intrusion. I saw outside Mr Frempong standing over a brazier. He seemed to be in a daze. He was throwing paper by the handful into the hungry flames from a box. With a wooden stick, he turned over the pages, ensuring they completely burned.

  If these were his own papers then he should not have been using up company time to burn them, but I thought they must be work-related and so I decided to investigate for myself. I made my way out of the building wondering how to challenge Mr Frempong politely.

  When I turned around the corner of the office, I saw the conflagration had died down and there was no sign of anyone. The box had gone.

  The stick Mr Frempong had used lay beside the brazier. I approached feeling the heat warm my face. I lifted the stick and flicked out a few half-burnt pages and stood on them. I picked up the first, which stunned me into retrieving more from the embers. In the end, I saved four pages that had artistically burnt edges. I spread them out on the ground. They were lists. I ordered them alphabetically. They were the names and addresses of most of the National Embassies in Accra, the capital. Some had lines drawn through them while others had an asterisk beside the name or the address.

  I held them gingerly in case they would further disintegrate and returned to my office. I did not quite reach the door.

  Peace sat smiling, waving a blue paper. ‘It’s airmail for you,’ she said thrusting her hand towards me with the correspondence.

  ‘Airmail?’ I queried. I asked Peace if Moscow had an instruction for me.

  ‘Yes, airmail, try again. Think more personal. I mean think of a fluttering heart,’ she giggled like a school girl.

  I had forgotten how she had grilled me during the delightful evening at her home about the girl I’d left behind in Scotland. It dawned on me—of course, Morag must have written. I took the letter from her and turned it over, and in seeing the return address my thoughts were confirmed.

  ‘I’ll bring you a coffee and see that you are not disturbed.’

  I smiled and thanked her, but her expression turned to disgust. ‘I think you should wash your hands first. Goodness knows how you have got dem so dirty.’

  After hurriedly washing my hands, I sat down at my desk. I took a knife to carefully slice open the feather-light aerogramme. I turned it over to read the last line and a smile appeared on my face. Morag had written of her undying love and smothered the last line with a row of hugs and kisses. I had been forgiven. I launched into reading her letter with a hungry appetite for her news.

  Of course, to begin with, she responded to the points I had made in my letter to her. She had acknowledged it had arrived ten days after I posted it. The main point of her letter was that she was getting her yellow fever injection the following week, and in a month’s time, she would be in Ghana at the Korle Bu teaching hospital’s maternity unit. I checked the date the letter was written. That meant in twenty days she would be in Accra. I had to see Utechin soon about some leave.

  Now I had two reasons to speak to him. Would he be in a generous mood if I approached him right away? I looked at my watch. It was almost 3 p.m.—I’d have to wait until tomorrow.

  Chapter 10

  Morag gets a mention

  I woke early to another inevitably dry scorching day. I had already decided, having slept on it, to bring up the subject of Morag first and hope for a benevolent response. Utechin was likely to be touchier about his list of embassies.

  As he passed through the office, I signalled him over.

  ‘Could I have a moment or two of your time this morning? I have a couple of questions you could help me with.’

  ‘There’s no time like the present, Robert,’ he said, pointing to his office. I stood up and followed him through his door, shutting it behind me. He opened all the glass louvers, though I could not feel any breeze as it slowly made its way inside the room. A carafe of what I presumed was akpeteshie sat on a silver tray near the door

  ‘Have a seat and tell me what’s bothering you,’ he said in his guttural Russian.

  I took a deep breath as I sat down. ‘I am not sure if you know I have a girlfriend.’

  ‘You are young. Of course, you have many girlfriends. At your age it can’t be serious—not so? Anyway, it’s easy to pick up a local girl. They love sex with the white man,’ he laughed as his eyes turned towards the ceiling and moments of passion seemed to fill his mind.

  I cracked my knuckles at his response. ‘No, I don’t have lots of girlfriends. Just the one and she is training to be a doctor. That is why I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Ah Robert, you are worried about my drinking. Is that the advice she is giving you to pass on to me?’

  I smiled, mainly to hear his acknowledgement of his alcoholic guilt. ‘No, she will soon be spending six weeks working at the Korle Bu teaching hospital in Accra.’

  The atmosphere chilled. I could almost see his thoughts at work behind his dark eyebrows. ‘I wonder if I could have some leave—to see her?’

  ‘I see. Leave that with me for a couple of days. I’ll see what I can do. Now you had another matter.’

  The thought that my leave had not been finalised worried me. Was I about to lose all leave while Morag was in Accra? But I had to put that to one side as he asked about my second issue.

  ‘I noticed a burning smell yesterday. It was outside at the back.’

  ‘Ah yes, just burning a few papers. They make good compost, the ash, you know?’

  I could feel my heart beat rapidly as I struck home. ‘I managed to save a few pages. They was a list of embassy addresses in Accra.’

  He smiled at me. He was certainly not angry.

  ‘Yes, a list as you say. Of many friendly countries like Romania, Poland, and Czechoslovakia—and some who bother us, like the USA, Canada, Australia, South Africa etc.’

  I noticed he did not mention the UK.

  ‘Russia is always under threat from the West. We have a superior political system to theirs but they don’t agree with us. We have to defend the fatherland and attack our enemies—as we did in World War 2. That is why we have a list. I had made a new list with the latest information I had. I asked Frempong to burn the old list.’

  He had provided a robust response, but I could not see how he was involved. ‘This seems like the work of an embassy, not a peanut factory, surely?’

  I waited for his response. He sat forward, placed his arms on the table and interlocked his fingers. ‘The Russian embassy is our head office. This peanut factory is our cover in the north.’

  ‘Our cover? In what way?’ I asked with indecent haste, anxiety and surprise.

  ‘On Ghana’s northern frontier is Upper Volta, a former French colony, soon to be an independent country. Eighty per cent of the people are Muslim and the rest mainly Christian—and then there are the nomads, the Tuareg,’

  ‘The Tuaregs, you mean the ones who wander all over the Sahara?’

  He smiled at me. ‘Yes, they follow the seasons, but it’s a regular pattern. When they arrive in Tamale in the dry season, during the harmattan, I meet with them.’

  I was still confused. ‘Why?’

  ‘Propaganda, my boy, propaganda. Make them believe in the greatness of motherland Russia.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘By identifying their leaders and offering them opportunities to study in Moscow. You know, just like we paid for your study in Glasgow.’

  This was the first time Utechin had mentioned my links as a student. I felt uneasy with his knowledge of my past.

  ‘So—you have the Tuareg eating out of your hands?’

  ‘Too simple, Robert. Patience is the word. There’s no need to rush.’

  On that, I agreed with him. I felt I had much to consider. I’d prise him open at another time.

  ‘Well, I had better get back to my desk.’

  ‘You do that, Robert. We can talk another day,’ h
e said with sincerity, but his eyes were already on the carafe on the sideboard.

  Chapter 11

  The Enigmatic Amadu

  I was leisurely answering some work correspondence at my desk two mornings later. As I sipped a black coffee Utechin barged into my room and stood before me. His smile was as large as the Volta Lake.

  ‘Got you working in Accra for six weeks, while your girlfriend is down there.’

  I put down my pen sat back with a smile and my arched eyebrows begged him to give me further news.

  ‘You will be staying in the airport area—where all the embassies are. You will be living in the Russian Embassy and they will find work for you.’

  ‘Wow, I can’t thank you enough. But being away for six weeks, how will the work get done here?’

  He pouted his lips. ‘You can’t say it’s a taxing post, can you?’

  ‘No, not really but the temperatures make any work much harder.’

  He nodded briefly. Then he lit a cigarette. ‘I’ll tell Peace. She can cover for you. She’s a good hard worker.’

  When he had gone I moved the correspondence to one side and took out an aerogramme. I wrote to inform Morag about this change of circumstances. She was bound to be pleased.

  Amadu was a Tuareg. There could be no mistaking him in his flowing light blue robes and white scull cap. I saw him approach, coming out of the haze as if in a film. That meant the dry, dusty harmattan was on its way. It would prove to be a mixed blessing. It lowered the searing temperatures a bit, but at times visibility was also reduced dramatically. It cast a veil of red dust on every flat surface in my house and on my work desk. The dry dust-laden atmosphere made catarrh clog my lungs, resulting in frequent nose blowing.

  Amadu looked up through the louvers of my window. He bowed. I waved. I knew I had better introduce myself promptly, and made my way to meet him.

  ‘Salaam Alaikum,’ I said as I stretched out my hand in welcome. He smiled at me and responded appropriately. His accent surprised me. He spoke with what seemed to be a European accent, which confused me. My ears went on alert.

  ‘How are you enjoying Ghana,’ he asked.

  ‘It’s much warmer than Scotland,’ I said to him with a broad smile. ‘I’m sure you can’t imagine how cold it is in my country.’

  ‘I know how cold things can be. Especially, when I fly.’ His smile engaged me.

  ‘Cold—when you fly? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Cold, when I learned to fly.’

  ‘You mean you are a pilot?’ I said with a doubting glance.

  He smiled. ‘Yes, I was trained by Hanna Reitche. She was a supporter of Hitler. She was invited to Ghana by Kwame Nkrumah and she lived here from 1962 to 1966. She taught me to fly.’

  I tried not to show my total amazement that this elegantly robed African was a pilot. But I was still intrigued. ‘What planes do you fly?’

  ‘I learned to fly a double-seated Schlieicher K7—and a Slingsby T21. They are gliders. But I also learned to fly a Piper Cherokee 150.’

  ‘That’s impressive. So, where do you fly?’

  He laughed. ‘From here!’ and he pointed to the airport nearby.

  ‘So, you have your own plane?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He caught my obvious disbelief. ‘But I thought you are a nomadic Tuareg?’

  ‘Yes, but not all the time. Sometimes I work for Mr Utechin.’

  I hesitated. It explained his presence but gave no other hint.

  ‘I did not know you worked in the peanut oil industry.’

  His smile showed two rows of beautiful white teeth. ‘No, not for the factory. I am his eyes,’ he said raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Can I call you a spy, then?’ I joked.

  He approached me and grabbed my hand. He gave me a quick shake then he snapped our thumbs together before giving me a final handshake. It seemed to confirm my suspicions.

  I was sitting at my desk checking the supply of raw peanuts when Mr Utechin appeared and invited me into his office. Peace was gathering some papers in his room.

  I stood still. My eyes looked over to Peace. She pouted her lips. She had no idea why I had been summonsed either.

  As soon Peace left the room, the door was closed and he spoke in Russian.

  ‘Before you head down to Accra, I have a job for you, which I am sure you will enjoy.’

  I was glad to have a break from the monotony of the work and I eagerly listened to what he had in mind.

  ‘Amadu will fly you to Sandema. It’s not a long trip. It is north-west of here by a hundred miles or so. It’s a village hardly a tenth of Tamale, but there is a presence of some Spanish people. You speak Spanish fluently, don’t you?’

  ‘Er…yes, it was one of my specialities at university.’

  ‘Good. There is one man there. His name is Lorenzo. Lorenzo Desoto. He will be easy to identify. He has a Russian accent.’

  ‘I see,’ I said not really understanding why this man had a Spanish name. Utechin caught my uncertainty.

  ‘You can say he is double-disguised. When he retired from our government service as a petrochemical engineer he took on a Spanish name. It helped him to find work in this Spanish enterprise. He used to work in Madrid, but yes, he’s Russian.’

  Mr Utechin opened a drawer and brought out a paper-wrapped box. He handed it over to me.

  ‘A box of chocolates. He is one of us, a Russian, a very useful individual doing some very good work.’

  ‘Do I need a cover? I presume I need one?’

  ‘You tell him you have a present from Alfonso.’

  ‘And who is Alfonso?’

  ‘Alfonso works in Accra. He is the managing director of this project in Sandema. They have met on a few occasions. They seem to be good friends.’

  ‘I see, so how long will I be in Sandema?’

  ‘You find Lorenzo; give him the box of chocolates. Be polite. Remember they came from his friend in Accra. No need to talk about Tamale, your work here or me. Tell him you are a traveller. You met Alfonso – he’s six-foot tall, thin with short black hair, in Accra and he asked you to give this package to his friend as you were heading up to the Upper Volta border. Then, as soon as you can, you fly back to Tamale with Amadu.’

  ‘I see and when do you want me to go?’

  ‘Tomorrow is a good day.’

  That night I lay awake in my bed going over my instructions—deliver a box of chocolates to a Russian spy disguised as a Spaniard and beat my way back to Tamale as soon as I can. I was confident of what was expected of me and I guessed the box of chocolates signalled to Lorenzo Desoto that he was doing a good job. In effect, it was a message saying ‘well done’. To the hum of the ceiling fan, sleep overcame me.

  When I woke the following morning, I had a spring in my step. A short flight, a simple task and back in daylight for sure. What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter 12

  A Mission to Sandema

  Amadu told me he had been at his plane since six that morning when I strolled up at half-past seven. He had rolled up his long gown and was sitting with headphones on in a slender looking double-seated craft.

  ‘Salaam Alaikum, Robert,’ he said waving me onboard behind him.

  ‘Alaikum Salaam,’ I replied. ‘Is there an airport near Sandema?’

  He seemed to think that was a huge joke. ‘No…no no no. The land is flat and hard,’ he replied, his shoulders still shaking in mirth. ‘That’s all this plane needs.’

  My thoughts turned to a painfully bumpy landing, but I knew he must have flown to many such runways and I placed my trust in him.

  A thumb up from the conning tower was reciprocated by Amadu and we taxied down the runway to one end. He made a final check of his instruments. I hoped he had checked the fuel in particular—but who was I to question the pilot, indeed any pilot?

  Then the race along the runway began. I felt like a fit ostrich running along the tarmac until the nose of the plane lifted and my seat seemed
to drop. In no time at all we were seeing the mud huts of outer Tamale laid out in a regular pattern, like sporadic buttons on an orangey-red laterite cardigan. There were hungry vultures perched on the acacia trees seeking any overnight carcass. The coloured cloths of the women bearing heavy weights on their heads as they returned from the market grew smaller.

  The flight was only forty minutes or so. As we descended I had my eyes peeled for a regular landing area initially, but the nearness of the trees made me concentrate on their avoidance. With no more than a slight light bump or two, the wheels soon took over and with a wobble, we sped along the flat dusty ground. Amadu brought the plane to a halt under a spreading acacia tree.

  I soon realised just how much shade the plane was enjoying—as soon as I was in the open, the temperature soared to what must have been over 110 degrees. I wore a Bolgatanga hat, which had a very wide rim and was made of straw. I had seen so many farmers wearing them that I knew I almost looked compatible from a distance. It served its purpose well.

  ‘So, where do I return to be collected, Amadu?’

  ‘I stay beside my plane to keep unwelcome eyes from investigating it. I’ll be here when you return. Master says you won’t be very long.’

  ‘That’s good. But where is the factory? In the town? How far away is it?’

  Amadu turned some forty-five degrees around and pointed at a compound, which included a tower, some considerable distance away. ‘That’s where the Spanish are working.’