Miller Caldwell - Caught in a Cold War Trap

‘We’ve sorted that.’

The telephone rang. He picked it up and nodded a couple of times. ‘Yes, sir… yes… right away.’ Then he put the telephone back on its cradle.

‘The Ambassador is ready to see you.’

I was led further down the corridor to a sharp left turn. At the end were two rooms. The smaller one was for the ambassador’s secretary and the other was the ambassador’s. Ralph knocked then entered, beckoning me to follow. Sir William Copland, the British Ambassador, stood up.

‘Mr Harvie, please have a seat.’

Ralph handed Sir William a brown file. As he did so I caught a glimpse of my name on the cover. Then he left.

‘This is a very unusual case, as it were. Fortunately, you met Mr Owens at the pool. That gave us some time to check your credentials.’

I swallowed some saliva and waited to hear what else he knew about me.

‘You say the Russians know about the car dealings within my office?’

I took a breath. ‘Yes. But I informed Mr Owens about it.’

He nodded. ‘We’ve identified two members of staff who ran the illicit business. They have been dismissed from the service. They are no longer in Ghana.’

That statement made me feel relieved. It was a good defence if the Russians made more of the case.

‘But let me come to your situation. You seek asylum. Well, if you want to return home to Scotland, that’s not asylum. I can’t grant that. You are merely going home.’

My heart sank. I needed some sort of protection if I was not to stay in Ghana, or if I was evading being sent to Bolivia. I explained the situation to him more comprehensively.

‘There is a way to safeguard your identity. But first, what are your intentions when you get home?’

I gathered my thoughts. ‘Wait till my fiancée graduates and get married. By then I’ll probably be a teacher.’

‘It’s not as easy as that, is it?’

I had no answer to his question, and he knew I knew it from the vacant expression on my face.

‘You think you can just go home and live in Glasgow and not attract interest from the Soviets? Nor would you have made any preparations to go to Bolivia,’ he said drilling his eyes into mine.

I wondered how the interview might end. I did not like the way it was going. The ambassador was well informed about me.

‘Mr Harvie, it’s not going to be like that, I assure you. First MI5 will have to meet you on your arrival in London. And Mr Harvie, you will no longer exist.’

My eyes screwed up. God, what does he possibly mean?

He opened his drawer and brought out a dark blue passport. He passed it to me over his desk.

‘Study it carefully.’

I opened it. It bore the shield of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. The number in the white oblong box at the bottom was Lo 627747 but on the familiar dark blue passport was the name, Mr P.E. Clark. I opened it to read the first page. Mr Peter Ewart Clark, Citizen of the United Kingdom and Colonies. I turned to the next page and saw more familiar entries. 6th October 1950. My date of birth was correct. Height, 5ft 11” correct; colour of eyes, blue – correct; colour of hair, black that was hardly true. Whether bleached by the African sun or not, I had always had fair hair. It seemed the only error. The next page announced the passport was valid for all parts of the Commonwealth and for all Foreign Countries. It was dated by the Liverpool regional passport agency two months ago. On the same page, it had an entry for a profession.

‘So, I am Peter Ewart Clark, journalist?’

‘Just imagine you are Robert Harvie back home in Glasgow, having broken all communication with their embassies in both London and Accra. How quickly could they find you? Almost instantly, I assure you. What could they do to you? Well you know what they do to defectors—don’t you?’ he asked with a grin.

My memory focussed for a moment on Lorenzo Desoto and the box of chocolates.

‘My advice is never to take sweets from a stranger, not so?’ he laughed, then stopped abruptly. Perhaps he was remembering the four dead children.

‘I suppose so. I just hope my fiancée sees it the same way.’

‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that. She has the choice of a dead Robert Harvie or a new life as Mrs Morag Clark, I’m sorry, I mean Dr Morag Clark.’

I found myself nodding at what the ambassador had just said. It looked like I would be making the flight home and a few necessary adjustments to my life had to be made. I could cope but there were some points to clarify.

‘If I’m a journalist, who do I write for? That’s not clear,’ I said.

He smiled knowingly. ‘Freelance of course. You write for whoever buys your story.’

That seemed a good cover. If anyone asked I could say I had written for the Times, the Guardian, the Daily Mail, and the Glasgow Herald. Ah, of course, didn’t the Telegraph send me out to do an article about Ghana. Who would check? My cover seemed good.

I noticed the ambassador’s face grew concerning. ‘Unfortunately, the next flight to London is Monday night, arriving in London in the early morning of Tuesday. You will be met by MI5.’

Being back in London sounded great, as long as I kept clear of the Russian embassy. But that raised another problem.

‘What if the Soviets find me and want me to do something on Monday? That would cause difficulty,’ I suggested, biting my lower lip.

His smile disarmed me.

‘You will be staying at the Presbyterian church compound at Kuku Hill. That’s about a mile away, but Mr Owen will take you there.’

‘Thanks, that will be a great help for me, it truly will be.’

‘There will be some conditions. Firstly, you must not leave the compound for any reason. Remember now that Morag has gone; the Soviets will notice your absence more. You no longer have a reason not to be at their embassy overnight. Secondly, your meals will be brought to you. We have left a couple of novels you can read.’

‘Thank you. You have been very busy on my behalf. I really do appreciate what you are doing for me.’

‘Let’s not count our chickens yet, Mr Harvie. You will be driven to the airport on Monday night but unfortunately, a Russian flight will have landed shortly before you take off. We can expect some of your former colleagues to be around at that time.’

‘Oh dear, that could prove difficult.’

‘Of course, it will. However, we have arranged for that too.’

He lifted his telephone and moments later I was being driven up the hill to Kuku Hill for a weekend in nerve-wracking detention.

The church and its buildings were in a walled compound. The entrance had a mesh gate and a Muslim night watchman in a flowing gown prepared for his evening prayers while keeping a watchful lookout. I was impressed that the church had prepared a wudu room for cleansing preparations for him.

My room was sparse. It had light green painted walls, a mosquito net over the open window and a single bed. There was no shade on the light. I shared the room with several moths. I flopped down on the solid bed and promptly fell asleep.

It was dark when I woke. I turned on the light, but rather than flying to it, my friendly moths seemed to have flown away. I had the surreal thought that the moths had flown to the Russian embassy and informed my former handlers where I was staying. I grinned at my stupidity. But I was far from being at ease.

I heard a bell ring. It seemed to come from the far end of the building. I went out on to the balcony of what was the Victorian Basle mission house. From the darkness, I heard a woman call out.

‘Mr Clark, your supper is ready.’

I came down to the ground floor and made my way to the dining room. There was one man engaged in his meal, dipping his right hand into the fufu and gathering some palm nut soup. As he did so, he made a slurping noise. I acknowledged him with a nod, which made him point to the chair opposite him. I sat down.