Miller Caldwell - Caught in a Cold War Trap

A man approached the table where I was nursing a cool Club beer. I smiled at him and he drew back a chair.

‘Hi, I’m Ralph. Ralph Owens and you?’

‘’I’m Ewan Shankland. Been here long?’ I asked—the usual question.

‘Coming up two years,’ he said. I knew he was trying to identify me.

‘So where do you earn your cedis?’ I asked, smiling.

‘British High Commission.’

I had to think quickly, take a chance? Now or never—time was running out. My palms were sweating and I felt a panic in my heart. My plan was materialising right before my eyes. ‘So where are you on the ladder of progress?’ I asked to see where he stood in the ranks.

‘Third Secretary. Two off the top but I hope to make progress as long as I don’t blot my copybook,’ he laughed and clicked his fingers at a passing waiter. A Guinness was ordered.

‘And you? Let me guess. Banker?’

‘No, you’d never guess.’

‘Okay, then I won’t try.’

I took a deep breath.

‘I’m a Soviet agent, wanting to defect.’

Ralph laughed loudly—till he saw my sad expression.

A silence grew. His Guinness arrived. He put his lips to the glass and his eyes focused on mine.

‘But you are Scottish aren’t you?’

I nodded. ‘Would it be possible to speak to your ambassador?’

He held his glass in both hands. ‘Maybe.’ His face turned serious. ‘It depends how much you can tell me here and now.’

I asked if he had an hour to spare so my story could be laid bare.

‘I’ve all afternoon, and it looks like overtime for me,’ he said rubbing his hands together.

So I told him how I fell into the clutches of the Soviets, and how the chocolate’s I delivered in Sandema killed a traitor to their cause and four African children. I also warned him that the Russians knew about how the diplomatic car scheme was being exploited by his own staff. He took considerable interest in that.

‘Tell me again, how did you find that out?’

And I told him. He could see the honesty in my eyes as I began to reveal myself. It made him uncomfortable. He shifted from one buttock to the other. I could see he was ill at ease.

‘So it’s all about choosing the correct timing. I want my fiancée back in the UK before I make my move,’ I told him.

‘When is she leaving?’

‘Next Friday.’

‘So you are looking for political asylum?’

‘Exactly and I’ll spill the beans on the Russians in Ghana and London too,’ I said making an offer he could not refuse.

‘What time is her flight?’

‘It’s a midday flight to London, then a hop up to Glasgow.’

‘I see. Could you be at the British Embassy by 1:30 pm after she has flown?’

That night I went to see Morag. She told me how much she had enjoyed the last six weeks, and how she was looking forward to getting home to show her parents her engagement ring.

‘But how long will it be before you come home?’ she asked.

‘I’ve made some progress there,’ I began.

‘Not flying home from Bolivia then?’

I patted her arm playfully. I shook my head. ‘If I play my cards right I’ll be home a few days after you.’

‘You seem confident.’

‘I suppose I am. I have a golden bullet for the British Embassy. I think they’ll like what I have to say.’

Morag dropped her head at a rakish angle and raised her eyes in a teasing manner. ‘Normality is all I want. A stable life—to have a family one day. Is that too much to expect?’

‘Trust me Morag,’ I said.

She looked at her watch. ‘Do you have to be home tonight?’

‘No, they think I’m making myself useful.’

‘I’d prefer you were making yourself useful to me.’

She kicked off her shoes, grabbed my T-shirt and we flopped onto the bed.

Morag’s departure day arrived and I was there to help her do her final packing. What seemed like a multitude of medical professionals called at her room that morning. I realised if I had not already, that she had been made very welcome, been enthusiastic in her work and become popular with the staff.

The hospital paid for a taxi to the airport. In the backseat, Morag tapped my bag. ‘What have you got in there?’

‘Essentials. I’ll need them tonight.’

Fear gripped her. ‘Darling, do be careful.’

I hoped a reassuring smile would placate her, but we both felt our separation looming and neither of us could be certain when we would meet again. Separation would be even more painful now that we were engaged.

Caledonian Airways efficiently sent her baggage through the lines then we loitered in the departure lounge holding hands. The heat of the day was at its peak outside, but inside, the high fans gave some considerable relief. They resembled the propellers of older aircraft – wafting a steady flow of cool air. I held my anxiety in check, doing my best to hide it from Morag.

‘Give me a call as soon as you land in the UK, won’t you?’ she asked.

‘Don’t worry, of course, I will—I hope sooner than you expect.’

Small talk and sentiments of mutual love were expressed until Morag’s flight was called. It heightened my anxiety further and sweat began to form on my brow, I wiped it off with my handkerchief. No sooner than the handkerchief was out of sight than Morag gave me a hugging clenched kiss. I held her tightly for as long as I could. The second call for the flight was announced and we let go of each other.

I stood and watched her disappear and I was all alone once more. It gave me the impetus to sort out my situation.

I left the airport and hailed a taxi.

‘Osu R.E. please, British High Commission.’

Why the R.E had not been dropped, I did not know. The Royal Engineers had long since left. But by the same token, it was another link by which the Commonwealth remembered the days of the Gold Coast.

The British Embassy office was in Jamestown. I climbed the royal blue carpeted stairs and entered to face a highly polished oak reception desk. ‘Good afternoon. My name is Robert Harvie. I believe I am expected.’

My heart was beating like a native drum. The Ghanaian secretary took a moment to flip through some messages on her desk.

‘One moment, Mr Harvie. Do take a seat.’

I sat down where she pointed. I was not yet securely on British territory but when my head was raised I was looking into the eyes of Her Majesty in a frame. Then fear gripped me. Who might enter as I waited? My eyes fixed on the door and my ears were alert to any sound on the staircase.

After a couple of minutes a side door opened and Ralph Owens appeared.

‘Mr Harvie, thank you for arriving so promptly. Let’s go to my office.’

I stood up and followed him along a narrow corridor. On the walls were familiar pictures; the Tower of London, Carmarthen Castle, Giant’s Causeway on Northern Ireland’s coast and a scene from the highlands of Scotland. I turned my head to see The Tower of London again. Could I end up there, I wondered. Was treason still a crime with a hanging sentence? He showed me into his room. His name was boldly outlined on his door.

‘I had imagined meeting the ambassador himself,’ I said finding the courage to show my expectations.

‘You will meet him, but not just yet. Be patient. I’d like to clarify some points. Your fiancée? Has she left?’

‘Yes, just over an hour ago.’

He scribbled that information down.

‘You indicated at the Labadi club that you had information to tell us.’

I told him about the Russian London staff and the Tamale situation. The IRA’s intentions on the mainland and I began to tell him about the British car scam, but he raised his pen to his lips.