Caught In a Cold War Trap

by Miller Caldwell

  With that proverb still in our minds she left and we stood together silent for a moment.

  ‘Engaged? When did that happen?’ I asked. We laughed and then we cuddled. ‘It sounded good to me.’

  ‘Well maybe one day,’ she said.

  I felt good to hear that. We sauntered over to the window and looked out into the Gulf of Guinea.

  ‘You are as pretty as ever, I could not have found a better girl. I really love you,’ I said.

  There was a moment’s pause.

  ‘I love you too Robert. But we’ve got to get you out of this mess you are in. Whatever it is. So, start from the beginning again. Tell me after you were on holiday on Jura…start there once more.’

  Chapter 20

  Labadi Beach Club

  When I returned that night to my embassy room, I lay down on the bed, mesmerised by the revolving wings of the ceiling fan above me.

  Morag had learned of my route to Ghana, and finally, I had explained the murders I could still be charged with. It shocked her of course yet she saw I was not the instigator of death. Her condolences were so reassuring for me. My secrets were off my mind, the way was clear for me. How clear it was for Morag I was yet to discover.

  The next morning, Vitaly joined me at breakfast. He pulled up a chair.

  ‘Is Morag well?’

  ‘Yes, she’ll be starting her first day by now.’

  ‘A pretty girl.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ I said taking a bite of buttered toast.

  ‘Known her long?’ he enquired.

  I chewed a little more then held a cup of tea between both hands. ‘Yes, we met not long after we became students at Glasgow University.’

  ‘That’s a few years ago now, isn’t it?’

  I smiled at him. ‘Guess so.’

  ‘If an engagement party was on the cards, we’d just love to host it here.’

  ‘Well I can’t guarantee anything—but it’s on my mind, I assure you.’

  Vitaly rose from the table and slapped my back as he was leaving. ‘Come up to my room, I have something for you.’

  My eyes followed him out of the dining room. What could he possibly have for me? I finished my tea and returned to my room to brush my teeth. The brush sped hurriedly over my teeth; up and down, up and down, and as I spat out into the basin, I wondered if he had found something to occupy my duration in Accra. A quick comb of the hair and beard and I was on my way to his door. I knocked and waited.

  ‘Come in Robert,’ he said in Russian, the language in which we spoke at the embassy on every occasion.

  I saw on his table that he had a racquet, a squash racquet, laid across two files.

  ‘You play squash?’

  ‘I played a few games at university. Prefer badminton actually,’ I said relieved that there appeared to be no sinister intentions on his mind.

  ‘I don’t have a badminton racquet. But I do know a squash court.’

  ‘This is very kind of you. I think Morag could play too.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, Robert, this is work. I want you to go every Wednesday night to the Labadi Beach Sports Club. It’s where the expat community gather on a Wednesday night. It has a pool and a tennis court too, but they seem short of squash players. It’s after the game that you earn your stay. That’s when they socialise over a couple of beers. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, so far,’ for I knew there was more on his mind.

  ‘You will take note of anything interesting they might say. Get their names, find out where they work, who their contacts are.’

  ‘Will I use my own name?’

  ‘No, I have cover for you. You are Ewan Shankland. You work as an accountant for the Ghanaian owned African Trading Company in Usshertown in Accra. Go along this afternoon and join the club. They are likely to ask which activities you are interested in. Say squash, and perhaps swimming. Then you will be invited to join. Tell them Wednesday nights suit you. Take it from there. Mind you no Russian. You are British of course, this time. Go over there on Tuesday to get your membership card and see the lie of the land. Any questions?’

  ‘No, I’ll see what I can find out.’

  ‘You are a Godsend Robert, I mean Ewan,’ he said, and I got up to leave with my racquet.

  At 5 p.m. on Tuesday afternoon I arrived at the Labadi club. The staff was very obliging. I was met by cheerful smiles and in no time at all, I had a member’s card in my hand and had paid 10 cedis for my first three months. I asked if many played squash and to what standard.

  ‘Some are very good and some are just beginners,’ I was told. That was a good omen. I had a look around the clubhouse seeing names on the tennis championship board going back to the turn of the century. Only the years 1939-45 had no winners. There were several Macs and Jones and an array of other British names too. It was doubtful if any of them still frequented the club yet their presence seemed to linger in the old oak barstools.

  ‘Sir, can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Ah yes, a good idea. Have you a Tata beer?’

  ‘Sorry no Tata. We have Guilder or Club, sir.’

  ‘Then a pint of Guilder please.’

  ‘Where will you be sitting?’

  I looked around. There was a table near the tennis court where a ladies’ foursome was underway.

  ‘Over there,’ I pointed.’

  I was more than halfway through my glass when their game finished. They left the court and simply had to pass by my table.

  ‘Well played, ladies,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you,’ the tallest one said.

  ‘Are you a visitor?’ asked another.

  ‘No longer. I just joined,’ I said twisting my membership card between two fingers like a stage magician.

  ‘Then you can join us for tennis.’

  ‘Actually, squash is my preferred game. I gather we can play on Wednesday evenings.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Roger, my husband plays then. You’ll meet him tomorrow tonight.’

  I smiled at her.’ And how will I recognise your handsome husband?’

  All four ladies laughed like school children.

  ‘Roger is six feet five, need I say more?’

  My eyebrows raised an inch. ‘Six foot five, then it looks like he’ll cover the court better than anyone. I’m sure to be the loser.’

  ‘I warn you they seem to spend more time drinking than playing squash,’ Roger’s wife guffawed.

  ‘It’s a challenging game,’ I found myself saying.

  ‘Yes. So you are visiting Accra, or do you work here?’ the red-haired tennis player asked.

  ‘I’ve only been in Accra for three weeks. I work at the African Trading Company at Usshertown. I am their accountant.’

  ‘Oh, I must get you to do my tax return,’ laughed the smallest tennis player. I’m sorry—I did not catch your name.’

  ‘Ewan Shankland.’

  ‘Shankland, Shankland. It’s a Scottish name isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, lowland Scot.’

  ‘Are you related to a Bill Shankland, by any chance, a college lecturer in Dumfries?’

  ‘Er…no, not our branch of the family,’ I said, hoping that would end her enquiry.

  ‘So not married yet, I see,’ said Roger’s wife staring at my left hand.

  ‘No, but my fiancée is studying at Korle Bu Teaching Hospital.’

  ‘Three weeks? My, that way quick, Romeo,’ she said and they all laughed.

  ‘I’ve been with her for some time. She’s also from Glasgow,’ I said to clarify the situation.

  That night I made my way by tro-tro lorry to the hospital. I went straight up to Morag’s room and knocked. There was no reply. I looked at my watch it was 8 p.m. I returned to reception and asked when Morag would be off duty. I was told she would end her shift at 10 p.m.

  I sat down, hoping she might pass by. I wrote a note to tell her I could not visit on Wednesday nights because I would be playing squash at Labadi. As there was still no sight of her, I
approached the reception desk and asked the lady on duty to give my note to Morag.

  ‘I’ll put it in her pigeon-hole for you sir,’ she replied and did so before my eyes.

  ‘I am much obliged,’ I said.

  I decided to walk back home, passing many food vendors selling—roasted groundnuts, fried kelewele plantain slices and leaves of sour banku dough. The crickets clicked unseen and a few stray dogs lingered, hoping to be thrown a morsel of something edible.

  The following day was Wednesday. It dragged as I waited to start another mission. I hoped my last. I saw this task as something of a social outlet—not as dangerous as the tin of chocolates. But I thought it would take some time to get to know who was who. I went to the club dressed in white shorts and a blue top, reinforcing my status as a Scot, perhaps. I had borrowed plimsolls from a games box in the embassy’s gazebo. Vitaly approved my rigout.

  When I arrived, with my squash racquet well to the fore, I was met by Morgan, who took me through to the court. He was clearly Welsh—he said he worked for Barclay’s bank. His shirt sported Barclay’s Bank logo.

  ‘Hi, pleased to meet you, Ewan. Played much then?’

  ‘Not for years. Probably not even up-to-date with the rules,’ I said with a glum face.

  ‘Sounds like you are my standard. When these two come off, we can play.’

  ‘They look good,’ I observed. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Kevin is from Larne. He’s in the pale blue top. Willy Salmond is from Edinburgh, he’s a vicar at the Ridge Church in town.’

  ‘So, no foul language on court.’ I joked—I recalled my father identifying this Willy Salmond for me before I left Glasgow. At last, I would be able to say we had met.

  ‘Don’t you believe it Ewan, Willy swears like a trooper if he misses an easy shot. He leaves his collar behind on a Wednesday night.’

  ‘And Kevin? What does he do out here?’

  ‘Kevin is a vet at the university.’

  ‘I see. Oh, and I heard there was some player who was six-foot plus.’

  ‘You mean Roger?’

  ‘Yes, that’s his name.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I met his wife when I came out to get my membership card yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘She’d be playing tennis,’ he said.

  I nodded my agreement.

  ‘So, membership? Not a passing visitor. You must be working around here then?’

  ‘Yes, I’m the accountant at the African Trading Company,’ I lied confidently.

  ‘That’s a safe job.’

  My eyes tightened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A European accountant avoids the risk of embezzlement. No local family dashes. Not so?’

  ‘Dashes?’ I enquired.

  ‘Yes, tips.’

  ‘Oh, I see now yes, I’ve heard the word loads of times. So that’s what it means.’

  ‘You must come to our banking dos. Our accountants and managers, along with their wives, meet once a month. Bring your wife too.’

  ‘I’d like to but I don’t have a wife, just a girlfriend.’

  ‘A Ghanaian girl?’ he asked raising his voice slightly.

  ‘No Morag is a Scot too. She’s at Korle Bu teaching hospital.’

  ‘Bring her along. Give me your telephone number at the bar after we play. Hey… look. They are coming off, our turn.’

  We played the best of three. At first, I was slow, but I eventually got up to speed. My eye focussed and I began to win some shots. That boosted my confidence, especially as I saw onlookers above me, assessing my standard. I lost the first game 8-11. However, I rallied well and took the second game 11-9, and won the decider 13-11.

  There was hardly a moment lost when Roger entered the court. He tapped my shoulder as I left, to acknowledge me, or was it my performance? I watched him play and felt we were all of a similar standard which was reassuring.

  ‘Morgan, so what does Roger do?’

  ‘Rodger is a useful guy. He works for the Black Star Line—the shipping company. Gets things cleared from customs as quick as you like. A very useful man.’

  I played twice against Roger, but he beat me at both games. I put it down to his size and reach. Perhaps I was a bad loser. Willy and Kevin had the final game and then we sat in the open as the waiter took our orders.

  Crickets crowded the ground lamps and the hissing of a garden hose kept the lawn green. My Guilder arrived—all had a beer except Willy, whose orange juice matched Kevin’s top.

  Morgan went into his sports bag and produced a phial of pills. He laid them out and everyone took one. I bent forward to see what they were.

  ‘Salt tablets. You lose so much sweat playing you need to replace the salt. This does the trick. We always take one. It’s not an illicit drug,’ Kevin said with a sort of a snigger and the others laughed as they saw me relax.

  We were halfway through our beers when Morgan raised the hairs on the back of my neck. ‘These murders up in Sandema, they haven’t got him yet have they?’

  ‘A white man in the North? I bet he’s gone a long time ago. I can’t see how he could hide up there for any length of time,’ said Willy.

  ‘They should call out the Met to help them,’ suggested Kevin.

  It was time for me to muddy the waters. ‘I’ve a hunch, he was probably French and crossed over back into French West Africa pretty quick.’

  ‘Then why did he come to Ghana in the first place, to do his dirty work then?’ asked Willy.

  We sat silently for a full thirty seconds thinking about Willy’s point and of any other interpretation.

  ‘So Ewan, what brought you out to Ghana?’

  I was relieved the subject had changed. However, it was time to lie once more. ‘I always enjoyed geography at school. The dark continent, the white man’s grave, Mungo Park’s allure for the continent, not to mention an uncle who fought in the Ashanti Wars. It all galvanised me to apply to work in Ghana. And here I am.’

  ‘When did you arrive in Accra?’ asked Willy. ‘I’ve not seen you around.’

  ‘I’ve been in the city for three weeks now.’

  ‘You are a quick worker, Ewan. He’s got a girlfriend in Accra already,’ said Morgan, laughing while wiping his handkerchief over his sweaty brow.

  ‘Three weeks, that’s fast work Ewan,’ joked Kevin.

  ‘Well I had one other reason for coming here specifically. My girlfriend is doing medicine at Glasgow. She wanted to do some tropical work and got a place at the Korle Bu Teaching Hospital—and so I wanted a three-month placement and got six instead at the African Trading Company.’

  ‘Does she play squash?’ asked Kevin.

  ‘You know, I’ve never asked her.’

  Chapter 21

  Home truths

  I asked to see Vitaly urgently the following morning.

  ‘It was like being in a lion’s den,’ I began. ‘I was asked for my telephone number but got out of that one for the time being. I forgot to give it. They know I’m supposed to work for the African Trading Company. What happens if one of them phones the company this morning?’ I said with my fists clenched.

  ‘Relax, Robert. We can prepare a business card for you for next week.’

  ‘But if they phone the trading company this morning?’

  ‘Relax I said. If they phone the African Trading Company this morning, Yaa will direct the call here.’

  I thought for a moment. Was Yaa a servant of the Russian state?

  ‘We finance the African Trading Company. Just like the Groundnut factory. Of course—we do not speak about it. Rest assured if anyone calls to speak to you, Yaa will put the call through to me.’

  I sat back in relief for a moment, but only briefly. ‘The Welshman works for Barclay’s bank. They have monthly soirées—the accountants and the bankers and their wives. I have been invited to attend the next one with Morag. You approve?’

  ‘Approve? Of course. There might be some information you could find in that scenario
.’

  That night I returned to see Morag. I found her in the staff dining room, where she was slicing through some fresh pineapple. She put her fork down and pulled out a seat for me.

  ‘Finished work for the day?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, but keep your affections till later. The eyes of many are watching us.’

  ‘You sound like a spy,’ I laughed.

  ‘No laughing matter, this spying of yours. It does worry me.’

  ‘Well, the latest is that I am playing squash on a Wednesday night.’

  ‘Yes, I got your note. That’s good. Out of the embassy and meeting normal people, at last.’

  ‘I’m meant to listen out for something valuable or perhaps just of interest, but I do enjoy their company.’

  ‘You mean it wasn’t you who decided on playing squash, it was the Russians?’

  ‘Yes, but they only set the ground rules. I play their game and only give them harmless information.’

  ‘Let’s go to my room to talk,’ she said.

  As she unlocked the door I told her we were invited to the next banker’s soiree.

  ‘Us?’ she enquired.

  ‘Yes, us, that’s you Morag Sutherland and me—Ewan Shankland.’

  ‘Ewan Shankland? For God’s sake, whatever next?’

  ‘It’s my final job for them. I’m Ewan Shankland, an accountant at the African Trading Company here in Accra. That’s my cover.’

  She stood still before me. I was unsure of how she would respond. What I had said might have ended our relationship and if it did, I had only myself to blame. But I saw a glint of understanding in her eyes.

  ‘Oh Robert, darling. You are a puzzle at times. Yet I see how you are still trapped.’

  She came close and put her arms around my waist.

  ‘We are on the homeward leg. I have devised an escape plan but can only put it into practice when you leave to return home. I’ve thought it through and know I can pull it off. But don’t ask me about it.’