Miller Caldwell - Caught in a Cold War Trap

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?

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.