Caught In a Cold War Trap

by Miller Caldwell

  I was met at Kotoka International Airport in Accra by a car bearing the Corps Diplomatique insignia. The driver took my bag and placed it in the boot. With almost indecent haste he pushed me into the back of the car in such a way I wondered if I had been kidnapped. When I got my bearings, I realised the windows were blacked out.

  ‘Are we heading to the Russian Embassy?’ I asked for clarification, holding on to the back of the driver’s seat.

  ‘Yes, sir. They are expecting you.’

  In those six words, I felt a growing sense of satisfaction. I would be safe for the time being, and if the coast was clear I’d have Morag to comfort me once more.

  The drive was short. Embassy residences were near the airport in the residential district of the city. The car went up the drive and round the back of the residence, where it pulled into in a demarcated parking space.

  As I got out of the car, a man greeted me.

  ‘Welcome Robert, I am Vitaly Karmanov, First Secretary. I am glad you have arrived safely.’

  His smile disarmed me. I returned my thanks for his welcome in Russian.

  ‘Come, let me take you to your room.’

  I followed on as we entered the residence and climbed the stairs at the back. It led to a corridor and at its end, a door. He opened it and I stepped into a large square room with a view of the garden at the rear. It seemed the foliage went on forever.

  ‘This is where you will be for the time being.’

  ‘The time being?’ I said, wondering how long I would have to be here.

  ‘Enough time for you to grow a beard, enjoy the facilities of the residence and relax. There will also be some debriefing required, of course.’

  ‘Grow a beard?’ I said in astonishment. But it was not a request. ‘Of course,’ I replied out of instinct. I must not put a foot wrong. A disguise would help me.

  ‘You will eat with the Russian staff in the rear dining room. I need not tell you that all correspondence will be checked before posting. That means diplomatic bag dispatches as well as local mail, so don’t seal your letters.’

  I nodded, showing my understanding.

  ‘There is a bell system in your room. Use it freely, but only contact the ambassador in extremis. Your requests will be answered by me or one of the other staff.’

  ‘Thank you. So—I’ll unpack and settle in,’ I said, feeling I was secure in this protected place, yet wondering how they might use me.

  ‘Am I confined to barracks, as it were? No leaving the residence?’

  ‘Exactly, but do use the swimming pool—you’ll find it at the rear, or the tennis court. There will be plenty of opposition for you, both Russian staff and domestic, as well as the Ghanaian secretarial staff.’

  He must have felt I had received enough information for the time being. I noticed a shower in an adjoining room and a wash hand basin. That was what I needed to calm my nerves, a warm shower.

  I opened my toilet bag and took out my razor and laid it to one side. I had a look at myself in the mirror. I saw a man ill at ease. A man on the run from murder and that gnawing feeling increased each day. Would I be betrayed? Could I ever live without this guilt? A man trapped with no apparent exit. A man longing for his girlfriend to calm his worries. A man with a growing stubble.

  Chapter 15

  Life at the Russian Embassy in Accra

  Shortly after noon there was a knock on the door. Two Ghanaians appeared. Dressed in formal white trousers and jackets, the contrast with their skin was startling. One had a tray with two sandwiches, a bottle of water, an orange and a banana. The other brought a multi colourer towel with him.

  ‘For a swim this afternoon, after you have eaten, sir,’ said the towel bearing servant.

  ‘All other lunches will be downstairs, but today, the lunch tray is here for you,’ said the other.

  Then they departed. I did not even ask their names. There was so much on my mind.

  I enjoyed the meal, simple as it was, and wondered if the evening meal might be more formal. Then I unrolled the swimming towel to discover a pair of swimming trunks. They were not new, but they had been washed. Who was I to reject them?

  I took a pen and a pad of paper from the bedside table and went down to the pool an hour after my lunch.

  The pool was on higher ground at the end of the garden. I passed a grass tennis court. The sun had baked it browner than green, but the surface looked flat and hard and ready for play.

  The sun bore down on me, and so I was in the pool as soon as I was ready. The water was warm, with the smell of a recently applied cleansing agent. There were lanes marked out the bottom of the pool, but I ignored them as first I swam on my front contemplating drowning as a means to end my guilt in Sandema. A couple of lengths later I turned over onto my back as the sun beat down its rays to burn me. Purgatory must be like this I thought.

  In both exercises, I was unable to relax. The murders lay heavily on my mind. Yet the Russian hospitality was welcome. The police investigation in the north was more problematic. Surely some will have concluded I was no longer there at the Pioneer factory and with a dash or two they could actually betray me. Yet I knew I was in the safest place, as an embassy gave its own immunity. How long for I wondered. Then a plan began to formulate in my mind. A plan to escape.

  I found a lounge chair in the shade of a bowing palm tree and I was dry in no time at all. I lifted up the pad of paper and began to write to Morag. I told her about the pool and the tennis court first and that I was staying in Accra. I was sure that would please her. Her six weeks elective might coincide with my time in Accra, but it was too soon to determine that. The events in Sandema did not feature in my letter. That was for a later chat or would it be a confrontation? I wrote at length of how I was missing her and counting down the days till she arrived in Accra.

  Having written and addressed the letter I closed my eyes. The sun was soporific and the humidity of the south of the country made me feel drowsy. I was not expecting company.

  ‘Is it Robert, the Scot?’ a female voice asked in Russian.

  I shaded my eyes and saw before me a red polka dotted bikini-clad woman of around forty years of age. I confirmed that I was indeed Robert. ‘I am surprised you know who I am.’

  ‘You are the spy who killed that man Desoto.’

  There was no point denying it. This woman was probably the wife of a senior Russian diplomat.

  ‘I can’t deny that.’ I replied as if it was a simple task.

  ‘A messy task, but so necessary. We can’t have defectors, can we?’

  I made sure she saw me nod vigorously.

  ‘And your duties in the embassy, can I ask?’

  She laughed. ‘My duty is to my husband Viktor, Second Secretary. My name is Darya.’

  ‘So you know why I am here?’

  ‘Of course. You are a fugitive. We will protect you. You are safe in this compound. It is Russia here.’

  She lay down beside me on another lounger. My eyes closed at the brightness of the sun.

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  I looked at her to understand her question as she undid the top of her bra and cast it aside. She lay on her back.

  ‘I’m trying to get a suntan.’

  ‘I see,’ I said and got up to swim once more.

  That night as we were about to sit down to a communal table, Vitaly drew me aside.

  ‘I was not aware you had a girlfriend coming to Accra?’

  ‘Ah, Morag. Yes, she is doing a six-week elective in tropical medicine at the Korle Bu teaching Hospital soon.’

  ‘That’s good. We hope to meet her sometime.’

  ‘She will be very busy,’ I said in haste, hoping to dissuade him from finding an espionage role for her.

  ‘I imagine she will be very busy indeed, but surely she will want to see you—and here you are?’

  I smiled at him. ‘Yes, it could be a very welcome break for her. And me of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

 
He introduced me at the table as the northern agent who has been doing fine work for the Soviet nation. I smiled and acknowledged his comment. He then told everyone that I was not only Scottish but a descendant of the much-loved poet, Robert Burns. This proved very popular. I had to ask how he knew.

  ‘Utechin told us.’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember us reciting a Burns poem one day.’

  The meal was a combination of Russian and Ghanaian food. Avocado with chopped onion and vinegar for the starter, followed by a hot goulash with dumplings and a fresh bowl of fruit with a dollop of ice cream. Oh, how I enjoyed that meal.

  The following day I was summonsed to Vitaly Karamanov’s office, which was on the first floor looking over the front of the grounds.

  ‘Take a seat. I have some sad news for you.’

  Sad news for me? I could not think of anything other than that they were about to put me out, leaving me to fend for myself.

  ‘Comrade Utechin died last night.’

  There was a moment of silence as I absorbed the news.

  ‘I knew he had been attending the Tamale General Hospital. Of course he drank—’

  ‘You are right. He died of complications of cirrhosis in the liver.’

  ‘He certainly showed the signs of jaundice and I sometimes I saw some blood in the washbasin. He had been coughing up blood. I was glad he was, at last, going to the hospital but obviously, it was much too late.’

  ‘Yes, we knew of his drinking. He had been a good agent for so long—a soft job like running the Pioneer Peanut factory was his reward.’

  Despite the despicable errand he gave me, he had been jovial at times and I had warmed to him. I felt Peace would miss him most.

  ‘Now I have two people in mind to take over. You can probably guess who.’

  ‘I think Peace Assare or Sammy Nkansa would be good candidates.’

  ‘Yes, but who would you chose?’

  I took a moment to answer.

  ‘I would go for Peace. She is a strong woman and I think, almost a decade after independence, it should be a Ghanaian. She is such a capable woman. Mr Nkansa? He is not universally popular. Peace is.’

  ‘Then Peace it is. I’ll go up and tell her,’ Vitaly said in a matter of fact way.

  ‘The funeral, I should really attend,’ I suggested.

  His smile disarmed me. ‘There will be no funeral here. Comrade Utechin’s body will be flown to Accra and we will fly it home. His funeral will be in Bologoye.’

  ‘Is that between Moscow and Leningrad?’

  With a slight nod of his head and a broad smile he said, ‘you know your Russia well.’

  Chapter 16

  Supping in the Lion’s Den

  Morag would be with me in just under two weeks and then I’d have to admit that living in the Russian Embassy had been necessary and not just a holiday.

  I was contemplating the day as I prepared for my morning walk around the grounds. Yes, I would stop to smell the sweet bougainvillea or the flamboyant white frangipane amid tropical ferns. Then the bell jangled in the wooden glass fronted bell cabinet in my room. There was no denying whose spring coil it was. It was the Ambassador’s bell. He was summoning me to his office.

  I knocked on his door and he shouted to me to come in. He was standing with his hand ready to shake mine.

  ‘Are you enjoying our hospitality?’ he asked by way of an opener.

  ‘I can’t fault it at all. I have made great use of the pool and the gardens. And of course, it has given me time to grow this beard,’ I said caressing the growth over my chin.

  He laughed. ‘It suits you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I hope Morag will like it,’ the ambassador said.

  He had obviously been aware of my letter. ‘I hope I can serve again if I can, but I realise Ghana may be out of the question—following Sandema.’

  He returned to his seat and from a silver case took out a cigarette. He offered one to me but I shook my head.

  He exhaled. ‘You must be wondering why I have brought you to my office.’

  ‘Well, it did surprise me.’

  ‘I have an assignment for you. On Saturday I have been invited to an evening of conversation and music at the British embassy. I want to take you with me.’

  ‘Me! Why me? That would be like supping in the lion’s den,’ I said proudly to have been given such consideration by the ambassador.

  He laughed as he blew out grey smoke. ‘I’ll take you as my aide de camp. Speak English with a Russian accent. Then we separate. You begin to mix. Find out what’s happening. Listen to conversations. Adapt your story as you wish. You have a proven record as a liar. Keep it up.’

  ‘I see, sort of being the eyes and ears and remembering any significant information.’

  ‘Yes, and the not so interesting information too, of course.’

  I was glad the ambassador thought I could be useful to him, but the British embassy was where I had been thinking of making my escape. I didn’t want to risk being identified too closely with the Russian ambassador.

  The days leading up to Saturday crawled by. Yet I had no time to write to Morag. My mind was still dominated by the murders. A minister’s son brought up in the faith but still a murderer in the eyes of Sandema and elsewhere. It was uncomfortable beyond words can tell. My daily swims became twice daily though I kept my eyes from, by now, two Russian wives who sought over-all tans.

  On Friday night, I was fitted with a dark blue suit with a short-sleeved blue shirt and tie. I tried on a selection of other clothes and they fitted fairly well. In the end, I decided to wear flannels and a bright and colourful Jeromi with intricate silver thread embroidered around the neckline.

  On Saturday afternoon I had a siesta. It was four before I woke. My swim ended up being with two male embassy staff that seemed to know I was a spy. Everyone did. They asked a few questions. Our conversation, in Russian, was not stilted. They seemed to enjoy speaking to a westerner in their own language.

  That evening at 6:45 p.m. it was as dark as fresh charcoal for burning. I set off with the ambassador on a journey of less than half-a-mile. The driver dropped us at the front door and drove away. There to greet us was a flunky who took our names and announced us as the Russian ambassador and his aide-de-camp.

  We shook hands with the British ambassador and his charming wife and proceeded through the hallway to where there were open doors leading to the lawn. At the side of the staircase was a drinks table with bottles of local beer and glasses of champagne. Gin and tonics were ready to be served too with bottles of orange Fanta for the Tee-totals amongst us.

  The ambassador went straight for the orange juice and after finishing one glass he drank another and then, with his hands free, began to circulate amongst the ambassadorial staff of many different nations.

  I was pleased to see the Accra Police Band wore Jeromi shirts, as did many of the other guests. I circulated as much as possible away from the suited ambassadors looking for others more my age.

  I encountered a group of British VSO teachers and nurses and had a lengthy chat with some of them. I was interested to hear that one young man was an economics teacher at the Navrongo secondary school. I could not help but ask him about the poisoning cases.

  ‘Oh yes, about a month ago. Well, the Kumasi police have returned home.’

  ‘So they got the culprit?’ I asked, feigning a general curiosity.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. They decided, as Sandema was so near the border of Upper Volta, that it made sense for the killer to cross over and make his escape from there. After all, they don’t get our news in Upper Volta, and we certainly don’t get theirs. So it looks like he’s got off scot-free,’ he laughed.

  ‘Scot free, it’s been a long time since I heard that expression,’ I laughed, wondering if he knew more than he said.

  I mixed with a few more VSOs and then found myself talking to some missionaries whose work covered the country. They all seemed more concerned with
their local communities rather than bothering much with contact with other towns and they had no reason to mention the deaths in the north. Rather they quizzed me about the Russian Orthodox Church. It was not something I knew much about, so I hid behind a heavy Russian accent and struggled to find the words required in response. Yet I probably spent almost twenty minutes with them.

  Then the police band began to play. As the night’s entertainment for a British party, they played a selection of old English folk tunes—‘Greensleeves’, ‘Blow the Wind Southerly’ and ‘The Keel Row’ among them.

  I approached the band as they came to the end of this collection of English songs. I said, ‘Excuse me, why not play some Highlife?’

  The request produced smiling faces and the conductor took his cue from them, and suddenly the guests started to move their hips in time with the music. I caught the eye of Comrade Leskov and he smiled at me. I was certainly integrating.

  On Sunday morning the Ambassador sat with me at breakfast to hear my thoughts and impressions.

  ‘So Robert, what did you think?’

  ‘It was enjoyable, after all, I have not been out of the embassy for over two weeks—I heard that the extra police that was drafted to the north have been called off the murder enquiry in Sandema.’

  ‘Really? Good.’

  ‘An economics teacher from Navrongo told me they had come to the conclusion that the killer crossed over to French Upper Volta and made his escape from there.’

  ‘Excellent. That means we can send you somewhere else, but not back north.’

  I convincingly informed him I was ready to serve whenever and wherever that might be. Then my recollection of the previous night took hold of me.