Caught In a Cold War Trap

by Miller Caldwell

  That afternoon, I slept like a newborn chimp but with no mother’s breast to cling to. When I awoke, the afternoon light was beginning to fade. My final preparations to leave Ghana were underway.

  It was a black air-conditioned Daimler, Corps Diplomatique, of course. The flag on the bonnet was covered, which indicated that the British Ambassador was not inside.

  I sat in the back with Ralph. As the car approached the diplomatic residential quarters I sat back and slunk down in the seat. Meanwhile, my heart was bounding like a cheetah.

  Ralph told me we were passing the Russian embassy. I ignored, with a nervous laugh, his invitation to stop and say my fond farewells.

  Ralph shook my hand. ‘I will stay with you at the airport, but I thought I’d like to shake the hand of a defecting Russian spy. We don’t deal with many of them.’

  ‘A very reluctant spy you mean? I was trapped from the day I wrote to them, to correct an error on the radio. It was so easy to get pulled further into their web.’

  ‘Seems so. Anyway, we are about to get you out. Remember to relax. You will be with your fiancée very soon.’

  The luxurious car slowed down and the driver came to open my door. The oven-like heat of the country hit me once more.

  Inside the airport, there were traders selling fruit, Pioneer biscuits and sweets. Pioneer seemed to a popular product name. I ignored all of them. British Caledonian would provide a sumptuous meal and I had that on my mind momentarily while a more pressing matter took over.

  ‘Am I getting my passport back yet?’

  ‘Yes, sorry. Gosh I should have given it to you in the car.’

  Ralph handed the passport to me keeping his hand over its front face as he did so.

  ‘Okay, I’ll stand over there.’ He pointed to a window from where he could watch the runway. ‘You book in your baggage then come back to me.’

  The British Airways check-in desk was staffed by a local Ghanaian woman. I stood in line and watched her as she checked through the passengers ahead of me. She did so very efficiently without making much eye contact. Unusually for a Ghanaian, she seemed cold, almost uninterested in her work. There was a minimum of conversation made.

  I approached her with my ticket, passport and luggage. I saw her name was Betty. She took my case, labelled it and placed it on a series of metal rollers. She gave the case a kick and it disappeared through a dark plastic sheet taking it out of sight.

  Suddenly she smiled at me. ‘So, what do you write?’

  I was taken aback. ‘Oh, lots of things,’ I said as my mind went into overdrive.

  ‘What did you cover in Ghana? What have you said about us?’

  ‘Good things. You are a friendly country with beautiful countryside, wildlife and a great supply of fruit and vegetables,’ I smiled.

  ‘But you have not been to the north. It’s almost a desert. Did you know that?’

  ‘Indeed I do, I visited Tamale and Bolgatanga,’ I thought that would show I had covered her country from head to toe.

  ‘Did you write about the murders in Sandema?’ she asked looking up at me.

  I realised I had been stupid to mention the north.

  ‘I arrived too late to cover the story. Anyway, the investigation wasn’t making any progress. It lacked interest for the papers in Europe,’ I said returning my eyes to my passport in her hands.

  She snapped the passport shut. ‘Have a good flight, Mr Clark.’ I thanked her and placed my new passport in my back pocket.

  ‘Next please,’ she said even before had I left her desk.

  I returned to Ralph.

  ‘So far, so good.’

  He took my wrist.

  ‘Don’t speak too soon. The Russian plane has just landed. Let’s sit over here besides some other travellers.’

  We made our way over to a couple of vacant seats and sat down. Ralph had brought a Daily Graphic. He handed it to me.

  ‘Now cross your legs and bend over as if it is the most interesting thing you have ever read.’

  I looked at the second back page, which featured a report of the Accra Olympics v Hearts of Oak game I had heard on the radio. I became engrossed in the report. As I turned back a page, I looked up. Standing only a few feet from me was Vitaly Karmanov, First Secretary of the Russian embassy.

  My foot nudged Ralph’s shoe. I pointed behind the paper at the figure in front of me. ‘Russian diplomat,’ I whispered so quietly he bent forward.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, Russian—First Secretary,’ and pointed my finger as discreetly as I could.

  ‘Relax Peter,’ he replied.

  But relax I could not. I turned to another page. Surely all Vitaly could see was a man with black hair and a central parting? For a moment he lingered and then he moved a few paces forward. I glanced up and he shook the hand of a traveller from Moscow. They were all smiles. Vitaly took his luggage and they passed us together. I heard his muffled speech. I wondered if Vitaly was telling him about the Russian speaking Scot who he would meet at the embassy. But it was my imagination out of control. They turned to leave the airport. Vitaly seemed to glance in my direction for a brief moment. Then he made for the exit without any further interest in me.

  ‘The sooner I am onboard the flight the better.’

  ‘We’ll just have to wait till it’s called, Peter. Relax, you are almost there. Don’t go and blow it now.’

  Chapter 26

  London in Disguise

  I looked back on the past hour as the plane gathered speed along the runway. When its front wheels left the ground and the plane nosed skywards, I gasped. When the rear wheels lifted and the roofs of Accra grew smaller by the second, I knew I was safe from Russian clutches—for the time being. I relaxed more than I thought I ever could.

  Before too long that longed-for evening meal was served and coffee followed. When the trays were gathered, the lights were dimmed. I placed the dark shades over my eyes, let my seat go back a few inches, took a deep breath and entered the land of Nod.

  I awoke around 4 a.m. Most of my fellow passengers were still asleep, but I could not return to that state. I took a page out of a notebook in my bag and began a letter.

  We landed at Heathrow at 5:45 a.m. I was not in a rush to leave the security of the plane and continued sitting while other passengers stood impatiently in the passageway. Eventually, they moved off and I brought up the rear.

  Would I be briskly arrested by MI5 or would they take a more gentle approach to my detention? Immigration control took a cursory glance at my passport. After all, they could not have been looking for a Russian spy. I was then free to collect my baggage and head for the Customs area. The ‘Nothing to Declare’ lane formed a queue. It seemed every tenth passenger was asked to show the contents of their cases. I felt we were all counting whether we were the tenth in line. There was no interest in my progress. Then I appeared in the clear, convinced I had an honest face. It did not take long to see three suited men eyeing me. I smiled at them. They smiled back.

  ‘Mr Clark?’ the tallest man asked.

  ‘Yes, I was expecting to meet you.’

  The car took us to the banks of the Thames. It took more than an hour. Then I was seated behind a table.

  ‘Good morning Mr Clark. I trust you are not too tired after your long flight?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ I said apprehensively to a mushroom suited man in his late thirties.

  ‘I am Mr Gray. I need to ask some questions.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said wishing to seem obliging.

  ‘I have, of course, received much information about you from Ambassador Copland, in Accra. I’d like to hear your story.’

  ‘I trust you have the time?’

  Mr Gray got out his notepad. ‘I’m ready when you are, and I’ve got all day.’

  I smiled at the thought because my story was unique. It needed to be told exactly, and above all that required time. For one thing I was certain. I was not a Russian spy.

  Two h
ours later, after one convenience break fuelled by a complimentary coffee, I sat back having told everything I could without any omission.

  ‘Then you will be anxious to see your fiancée,’ Mr Gray said with a slight smile.

  ‘You are reading my mind.’

  ‘That’s what MI5 does, read minds,’ he laughed. His tune changed. ‘Of course, this is just your story. I can’t risk you still being a Russian spy, returning here to continue to spy for the Soviets.’

  Was he teasing me? Why the sudden change of questioning? ‘I appreciate some of the information I have given cannot be verified, but I can give you my word. I am no longer anyone’s spy.’

  ‘Mr Clark. It’s not that I don’t believe you. I just cannot take a chance. So where are you heading now?’

  ‘I’d like to phone my fiancée as soon as possible to say I have arrived in London and then get a train north to Glasgow.’

  ‘Very well. I have no objection and no intention of detaining you further. I have just one requirement of you.’

  My eyebrows tightened.

  ‘You will report to the nearest police station on the first working day of each month. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, but for how long?’

  ‘That is for MI5 to determine, not you, Mr Clark.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You wished to make a telephone call? Go next door. It’s a small room but has a telephone. Dial 01 to get an outside line.’

  I did as I was told and dialled the number which Morag had given me. ‘Dr Sutherland?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘It’s Robert Harvie here. I’ve arrived in London. I look forward to seeing soon.’

  ‘Well, you have been a bit of an enigmatic fiancé. We look forward to seeing you again too.’

  ‘Can you get a message to Morag after classes? I assume she is at classes just now.’

  ‘I can phone her flat, later presumably

  ‘Yes, but tell her I love her too,’ I added.

  ‘Ah, of course.’

  I replaced the telephone and returned to the interrogation room. It was empty. I left the MI5 building and made my way to Euston station. There, I posted the letter I had written on the plane.

  Clearly Dr Sutherland had got his message through to Morag. I saw her on the forecourt of Glasgow Central station looking at the passengers leaving the London train. Her gaze passed over me.

  I approached her, then stopped and stood still, about ten paces away. She glanced at me briefly and continued her focussed search behind me.

  ‘Is that not Morag Sutherland?’ I asked.

  Still, there was no recognition but curiosity at what I had said.

  ‘My fiancée, Morag?’ I finally blurted out and ran with my arms open. We hugged briefly then we separated.

  ‘Goodness me, you look so different—and to be honest I don’t like that central parting.’

  ‘Nor do I, it has got to go.’

  ‘And the black hair?’

  ‘Yes, it’s going too. Come on, have you time for a coffee at the station cafe? I’ve much to tell you.’

  Morag could see why the disguise was essential in leaving Accra and offered a restorative procedure back at her flat, dying my hair back to something close to its natural colour. What she had difficulty in accepting was my new name—Peter Clark.

  ‘Darling when we get married does this mean I marry a Harvie or a Clark?’

  ‘Let some water flow under the bridge,’ I began, but she stopped me immediately.

  ‘How are you going to explain that you are Mr Clark to my parents?’

  I grimaced. ‘Well at least you can see why I had to do it.’

  ‘Yes, but my parents have been telling all our relatives and friends that I am engaged to Mr Robert Harvie.’

  ‘I see. So how much do your parents know my background?’

  ‘Not as much as you think. A Post-graduate languages student working with peanuts in Ghana is about as much as I’ve told them,’ she said with a laugh then as we clung together we kissed, like old times.

  That night in her flat Morag asked me about the possible charges I might face over the five murders. Her concentration on me was almost overpowering.

  ‘The case died down after a while,’ I said with a sigh. ‘But on the plane, I wrote a letter to the Ghanaian High Commissioner in London. I told him about the Russians’ plot to assassinate the dissident Lorenzo Desoto using a tin of poisonous Quality Street chocolates. I explained that I was the courier who delivered them to him without knowing their significance. I told him everything, including about the children. I thought it important for them to know.’ A tear was not far from falling down my cheek. Morag held my arm and stroked it.

  ‘No one ever planned to murder four innocent children, but the blame has to be laid at the Russian Embassy in Accra for arranging the plot, and to the late Mr Utechin for carrying out the plan through me.’

  Once more she looked at me with concern. ‘Did you sign the letter?’

  I shook my head.

  We agreed that that weekend, Morag would go home on Friday night with the sole intention of establishing me in the best possible light. She would give a full explanation of what had happened since we met at university, and how I had been trapped into being a Russian spy. She would say that those days were now over and that the British Ambassador in Accra had given me a new identity. The worst pill to swallow was the fact their daughter was soon to become a Clark and not a Harvie.

  That same weekend I went home to my parents to explain my situation. They were mystified that my life could have followed such a path. Yet they saw I had survived and had matured through the process.

  On Sunday night back in Morag’s flat, we assessed the families’ responses.

  Morag said, ‘Let’s give our parents marks out of 10. 10 being no problem and 1 being a disaster and pressure to end our engagement.’

  ‘Wow, two extremes. Okay, we shout the numbers out at the same time, after the count of three. Ready?’

  ‘Just a moment,’ she said thinking through her parental encounter. I was sure of my response but hoped our results would be favourable. She nodded that she was ready.

  ‘Okay, 1, 2, 3—8.’

  ‘8’ We had shouted in unison. We hugged each other.

  ‘So tell me why not 10?’

  Morag spent a thoughtful moment looking towards the ceiling. ‘I suppose just the embarrassment they feel having to tell their friends that Robert is really Peter,’ she giggled. ‘And for you?’

  ‘I suppose I didn’t write to them enough. That was the main problem but they are pleased that we have got back together.’

  Morag went to the kitchen and opened a drawer.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Making something to eat, that’s all.’

  ‘Well stop. Get your coat on.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve just booked a table at the Ubiquitous Chip.’

  Chapter 27

  Postscript

  By the time we met our parents again, my hair had found its natural parting, but the black hair was going to take longer to lighten and eventually disappear. In fact, our hair was not too dissimilar in colour. My beard had long since been shaved off.

  I resumed studies to gain my teaching certificate and began teaching Spanish and Russian to secondary pupils at Shawlands Academy. The following summer Morag qualified as a doctor and worked at the Victoria Infirmary nearby, where my father was still the hospital’s chaplain.

  I attended the Stewart Street Police Office monthly on the south side of the city for eighteen months. Thereafter a visit was required every two months and after a further six months, my requirement to report was terminated. In some ways, I enjoyed my visits. I got to know several police officers and found them to be polite and charming, despite seeing them arrive with men in handcuffs swearing like the proverbial troopers. Over the years, no retribution from the Russians came my way and I sometimes mention
ed becoming Robert Harvie again but Morag was quite adamant we stayed as we were.

  ‘I’m not changing my name again and nor should you. It’s safer this way, for both of us.’

  By then we were married and our first baby was on the way. That would be another issue—one day we would have to explain to our child why my surname was not the same as my father’s. But children adapt to life’s strangeness more easily than we do. I knew that one day my past would have to be shared with the next generation, and I hoped that by then Russia might be a more responsible nation. But I had my doubts.

  Two years later I decided to write about my experience. Let me share the first page of the first chapter with you.

  CHAPTER 1

  Jura 1967

  Have you ever been to the island of Jura? Not many people have. If you are a whisky connoisseur you possibly toured the island’s distillery to taste Isle of Jura single malt. Perhaps you were a climber assaulting the famous Paps of Jura, or a sailor assessing the treacherous cauldron of the Corryvreckan whirlpool from the safety of land. Maybe you needed to imbibe the presence of George Orwell (aka Eric Blair) who completed Nineteen Eighty-Four at Barnhill on the north of the island. That’s about all you can do on Jura, which is why not many go there. That however may be its attraction.

  I was there during the Cold War years and there my spying career took roots. I was on a family holiday in July 1967. In the third week my life changed forever…

  The End

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks are due to David Watt, formerly of AFNOR (Association Française de Normalisation) the equivalent of the BSI (British Standards Institute) in the UK. A translator, reviser and proof-reader. What a friend he is indeed. To my agent Mathilde Vuillermoz, who keeps faith with me while answering all my demanding questions. And to Jocelyn who leaves me to daydream, walk the dog, garden, shop, and cook. In the process of these chores, I work out my next line.