Miller Caldwell: Caught in a Cold War Trap

‘Yes, but…’ she stuttered.

‘Yes, I know. London seems far away, but there’s nothing definite. I can’t imagine they are going to offer me a job down there. After all, if it was a job offer, the letter would have said so. Wouldn’t it?’

She nodded slowly, glum-faced. I came close and wrapped my arms around her shoulders. ‘Perhaps I should have studied medicine,’ I whispered into her ear.

She turned her face and kissed my cheek. ‘God no, we need someone who isn’t a doctor in the family.’

Her words should have appeased me. Instead, there was a hint in how she said about ‘in the family’ which made me feel uneasy. She had arrived at that point before me. In truth, I was very much unsure of what lay ahead for me, or if it would be with Morag. I hoped my confused feelings did not show.

The early train journey down south was uneventful. I passed the time trying to identify what different passengers did. Business diaries seemed ubiquitous but gave nothing away. Their newspaper choice did.

I had lunch in the dining coach. As the waiter, in a white jacket, approached with the terrine of soup I noticed I was the youngest diner by far. He lodged his foot against the table leg with his thigh resting on the table as he served his ladle into my soup plate. My finances allowed for this luxury and I suppose it made me feel important.

Shortly after 2 p.m. the train arrived at Euston station. I took the district line to Bayswater and proceeded along the road of the same name. There bearing down on me was the red background of a flag, with the gold hammer and sickle beneath a gold star—the flag of the Soviet Union.

I entered through the iron gates and saw the light coffee coloured stone building. I climbed twelve steps and entered the embassy. I approached the reception desk with a smiling blond woman eyeing my approach.

‘Good afternoon, can I help you?’ she asked in her guttural Muscovite voice. After I greeted her in Russian I told her I had a letter and took it from my jacket. I handed it to her. She seemed to speed read its contents.

‘A moment please,’ she said lifting the telephone. ‘Василий Чазов.’

I heard her ask for Vasily Chazov, the author of my letter. I looked forward to meeting him. She replaced the receiver and turned towards me. ‘Mr Chazov will be ready for you in a moment.’

Pictures of Leonid Brezhnev adorned the wall opposite me. He had been the president since my original Jura letter to Radio Moscow, all those years ago. I did not have to wait long.

‘Come this way please,’ she ordered and I followed like a collie dog. We walked along a corridor filled with framed photographs of other Soviet leaders before abruptly stopping as we turned the corner. She knocked on the dark wooden door. She waited a moment with her ear to the door then entered.

‘Mr Harvie, come,’ she said with an arm welcoming me.

Vasily Chazov was a ruddy-faced cherub of a man—almost too large for his light grey suit. He was strong and of good height, with the apparent charm of a ladies’ man.

‘Delighted to meet you, at last, Mr Harvie,’ he said rising from his seat and offering his hand.

I shook it firmly. ‘More so I,’ I replied. ‘You secured my financial affairs when I was at university. That was very much appreciated.’

‘Ah yes,’ he said smiling at me. ‘Many congratulations on your degree. It is a significant milestone, Robert.’

I smiled at him as I sat down. First name terms already. A bit premature for me to follow suit, I decided.

‘Modern languages. Great skill and much in demand these days,’ he continued.

‘I was wondering whether I could be a school teacher, sharing my language skills with the next generation.’

He nodded, stroking his chin. ‘An admirable thought,’ he said and then his face took on a more quizzical look. ‘I thought a young man like you might want to see a bit of the world first.’

‘Naturally, but I haven’t thought about that. I have a girlfriend back in Scotland to consider.’

‘Ah yes, Morag. Still a few years to go for her before she qualifies, not so?’

I hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes, a few years to go yet,’ I said knowing he saw me thinking how he knew about Morag. He smiled and opened a box of cigarettes. He offered me one. I shook my head. He lit his cigarette and sat back in his chair. He had two cushions behind him. The smoke rose to the ceiling.

‘You wonder how I know about Morag?’ he asked with a slight smirk of a smile.

I nodded, not finding the words to indicate my surprise, my intrigue and my interest.

‘Olga told me. She is my niece.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said not really understanding how or why Olga’s letters had come his way. Nor why Olga had never told me about her uncle. But soon the conversation changed.

‘I suppose you are still wondering why I thought we should meet?’

Once more I nodded, but my senses were sharp and I paid even greater attention this time.

‘I’d like to offer you a job.’

‘A job? Really?’

‘Yes, a job in West Africa, Ghana to be precise.’

Did I hear right? My eyes narrowed in disbelief. ‘Africa! My goodness. But… but what would I do there?’

‘Let me make it clear, this job had been cleared by Leonid Brezhnev, the President himself.’

His eyes pierced mine. He wanted to see my response. But he did not wish to hear me yet. He gave me a history lesson.

‘You remember October 1962? The American’s attempted to overthrow Fidel Castro at the Bay of Pigs? It was a disaster. So Castro asked us to help out as the so-called Cuban Missile crises ensued.’

‘Yes I was 11 at the time. It was a frightening time,’ I recalled. For almost a fortnight it felt the end of the world might come about as the giant political powers stood up to each other.

‘President Kennedy and Comrade Khrushchev played games. But Russia was far from Cuba. We needed a half-way refuelling base to aid Castro. Guess where we found it?’

A picture of the world rotated in my mind and then I saw a possibility. ‘Was it Ghana?’ I asked

‘Right the first time, but not in its capital, Accra. We got permission to use the large airport at Tamale in the north of the country—the dry undeveloped north. It became a Russian base for our aircraft to refuel on their way to Cuba. Kwame Nkrumah was keen to get Russian aid and we gave him some agricultural machinery into the bargain. The British never supported him, so he became our friend.

‘Today, the airport is underused. It is mainly a domestic route, only a few planes land in a week. The locals are poor; they travel by road—no matter how dangerous that can be. Many travel south to eke out a living.’

‘I still don’t see how I could work there,’ I said hoping I looked sufficiently interested and vacant at the same time.

‘We need to open the airport up, for our use. Make our presence felt. The north of Ghana has one crop that never fails. Monkey nuts. You know groundnuts or you call them, peanuts—not so? They grow by the wayside as well as in scrub lands. They can produce groundnut oil, it has great potential.’

‘When you say ‘potential,’ in which market and how much groundnut production is there?’

He smiled at me. ‘Good questions. The health benefits of peanut oil include: better skincare, lower cholesterol levels, improved heart rates and a stronger nervous system. It also boosts cognitive function, strengthens the immune system, and lowers blood pressure. Need I say more?’

‘Wow, that’s amazing. But why don’t the Ghanaian people export it themselves?’

He smirked. ‘They just roast the nuts and eat them. None of them sees the potential. We provided the technology and production know-how. That’s where you come in. You, Robert, will be the manager of the Tamale Pioneer Groundnut Export Company.’