Miller Caldwell - Caught in a Cold War Trap

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.

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,’ he said with sincerity, but his eyes were already on the carafe on the sideboard.

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.’