Miller Caldwell - Caught in a Cold War Trap

It’s Me, Honest It Is

Commissioned by the NHS nursing service, this is an end-of-life handbook for individuals to complete.

Love in Flanders Trenches

A World War 1 saga of a nurse imprisoned as a suffragist and released to serve in the trenches, where she eventually finds love.

Murder at Blackwaterfoot

When a body is discovered on the island of Arran, the community are impatient to have the case resolved but when another body is found on the beach, the pressure is on Constable Rory Murdoch to find the killer.

The truth of this book dies after chapter 1. Now at the end, some more remarkable truth about my life, not as a spy but in a very unusual encounter.

Our border collie, Tâche, died in the first few days of October 2005. I mention this for two reasons. Firstly that it made me feel low and I was not taking in the news every day. Secondly, I was no longer under a canine regime of regular walks. However, at the end of the year, I was reminded about the dreadful earthquake in South Asia on 8 thOctober 2005 by a friendly part-time special police officer who ran a successful Indian restaurant in town. Farooq Ahmed lost his niece in this disaster which killed 75,000, injured as many again and left thousands widowed, orphaned and abandoned. He told me he was going out to the capital Islamabad to manage aid which was arriving in deluge proportions. He knew I had been placing children on supervision or having them fostered in my professional work for Dumfries and Galloway and also knew I had retired recently. He asked if I would be willing to go to the North West Frontier Province of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan to assist in the care of the children in a large camp at Mundihar. With no dog and an un-protesting wife who was prepared for me to go, I set off.

I arrived in Islamabad on 7th January 2006 with a case full of balloons, colouring-in books, exercise jotters, string, and my mouthorgan which security staff both at Heathrow and Islamabad insisted I played to the amusement of other travellers. That was a relief. It showed up on their radar as a gun-sized metal object. They applauded in London as did the staff in Islamabad.

I was driven 130 kilometres into the NWFP to reach the Camp at Mundihar. The ground had been donated by a farmer and lay in snow-covered tiered circles around a gentle hill. 24,500 people lived in tents on this farmland which lacked hygiene, sufficient food and warmth. On the second day, I was called to a meeting outside the farmhouse in temperatures below zero. The atmosphere was tense. A Brigadier of the Pakistani army chaired the meeting. The farmer’s wife had been found donating aid to the townsfolk who had not been affected by the disaster. It was a serious matter and the Brigadier made no bones about the situation. I raised my hand. The Brigadier looked up and gave me his attention. I spoke of world disasters and how people instinctively donated food, clothing and money to aid charities. Such aid came flying out to where it was needed but there was often no administration on hand to deliver it. I saw this as a similar situation. What was needed was a responsible structure and rotas so everyone receives aid and knows when it is arriving.

The brigadier stood up and pointed at me. ‘Sir, you are not a Muslim.’ I acknowledged his statement with a nod. ‘You are independent. I make you the camp manager.’ Suddenly and unexpectedly I found myself with a job, one which required my attention 24/7 and so my role changed dramatically. It became a job to prioritise the distribution of food and blankets – a priority in the cold and frosty January weeks. There were feuds to resolve amid pointed Kalashnikovs but I kept mine safe in the tent I slept in, as it was suggested to me by the Brigadier who provided it for me. Rain seeping down the terraces caused fury again when arms were the way the residents resolved disputes. Then I took ill.

I lost all energy and came down with influenza-like symptoms. I was taken to a building to recover in Mansehra where underneath a banner, Muslim Hands Eye Clinic, I lay on a mattress semi-conscious. After two days I was beginning to feel better and sat up on my floor bedding. Then I heard a car enter the compound. Two car doors closed, one after the other.

There did not seem to be anyone else around, so I got up and went to the door. On the compound ground before me stood a very tall man. The tallest man I had seen in Pakistan by far. He was about my height, as I stood on the raised forecourt step. He wore a cream chemise. His face was long with a straggly grey beard and piercing eyes. He looked very familiar. ‘Salaam Alaikum’ (Peace be unto you) I said bringing my beard close to his bearded cheek. ‘Alaikum Salaam’ (And unto you, Peace) he replied. That was when I suspected the most feared man in the world was standing before me. There was a stand-off silence for a moment before he asked of someone of whom I had no knowledge. I told him so.

‘Then who are you?’ he asked with contorted brows. There was a hint of accusation in his voice as if perhaps he thought I was trying to identify him.

‘I am the camp manager at Mundihar. I am recovering here from flu.’

His eyes narrowed as he asked his final question. ‘Where are you from?’

I told him ‘Scotland’ and on hearing this, without any further conversation, he turned and moved as quickly as his lame left leg could travel back to the car with the driver’s engine still running. It was a light blue four seated car. He sat in the back, bent double. His associate sat with the driver in the front. The car left the compound at speed and left me dazed as I saw it turn right. I saw the road sign above the compound indicate the direction he was taking – it was the road to Abbottabad. Yes, there was no doubt whatsoever in my mind. Not only by his sudden departure but his stature and perfect English, I had met Osama bin Laden. I returned to my mattress and saw my Kalashnikov. A thought ran through my head of having used it but the consequences I’d face would have been dire.

There was much respect shown to Usama bin Laden locally as one who had stood up to the might of the USA. Furthermore, when I received some visitors that night I was told he was often seen around the shops in Mansehra and Mundihar, towns with a joint population of 4 million people. The date was Sunday 26th February 2006 and Usama had just acquired his home in Abbottabad.

On my return to Scotland, I informed my member of parliament and the Chief Constable about the world’s leading terrorist in Abbottabad but they thought I was wrong. Both told me he was hiding in an Afghan mountain retreat. I suspect they thought I was deluded.

On 2 ndMay 2011 Usama bin Laden paid the price. He was shot by US Seals, in Abbottabad, and buried at sea under strict Islamic laws.

Occasionally I wonder what might have happened had I taken my Kalashnikov with me to the door? Might I have, almost by accident, arrested the world’s most wanted man? Or shot him, perhaps fatally? And in the end would whatever might have happened, have made any difference? Osama bin Laden is dead now, but at that moment when we met, he was just another man, like me. In my heart I can not begrudge him those extra five years—clearly, he lived in constant fear of capture or worse, and some might say that was punishment in itself.

Miller Caldwell is a Scottish novelist. He graduated from London University having studied African industrial development, traditional African religions and the colonial history of West Africa. He has had articles published in health magazines and The Scottish Review .