Caught In a Cold War Trap

by Miller Caldwell

‘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.

  ‘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.<
br />
  ‘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.

  Chapter 25

  Kuku Hill, Accra

  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.

  ‘Are you a new missionary?’ he asked.

  I hesitated, looking at my approaching meal.

  ‘No, not the church.’

  ‘Funny that. I saw you as a pastor, an agriculturalist, a doctor or a teacher perhaps, a missionary anyway.’

  ‘I must have that common look then,’ I said.

  ‘Then you’re a spy.’

  I looked at his face. He remained fixed on his plate of fufu.

  ‘Good heavens, no. What made you think of that?’ I asked with a disarming smile, hiding my anxiety. How could he have known?

  ‘I met a white man here in Accra, a Spaniard. He said his friend was murdered in the north. Talk was that he was a spy, even more so, when he was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered? I didn’t hear about that.’ I hoped I was convincing.

  ‘You could not have been in Ghana at that time. It was all over the papers.’

  ‘I guess it would be. So this Spaniard, was he a spy or a missionary?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t really know what he did. I never asked him.’

  On Saturday morning I managed to wash some clothes. I thought they’d dry quickly in the sun, but it was so very humid that day that they took longer than I expected. In the afternoon I heard shouting coming in waves over the compound. I made an enquiry and the maid laughed.

  ‘It’s from the El Wak stadium. Oly Dade is playing Accra’s Hearts of Oak.’

  ‘Oly Dade?’

  ‘Great Olympics Accra football team. We call them Oly Dade. They are playing Accra Hearts of Oak sporting club.’

  ‘I see. They make a lot of noise.’

  ‘You can hear the game on the radio. Have you got one?’

  ‘A radio? No.’

  ‘Then I bring one to your room.’

  And within a few minutes, she was as true as her word. I

  listened to the end of the first half and got the whole of the second. Oly Dade lost 4-3 in what must have been a very exciting match. Perhaps the goalkeepers were the weak links in each team.

  Night fell between 6 p.m. and half-past six. It varied no more than that all year as Accra on the coast is just 4 degrees north of the equator.

  As lights flickered on, over the compound wall I heard a car approach. I caught a fleeting glimpse of it as it parked on the far side of the building, but no more.

  I heard some footsteps on the wooden staircase to the landing of my room and went out to see who was approaching. It was a Ghanaian with a large box. The man behind him put my mind at rest.

  ‘Mr Clark, a visitor for you.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Owen, I’m afraid I’ve no hospitality to offer you here.’

  ‘Call me Ralph, we seem to know each other pretty well by now.’

  ‘We certainly do, Ralph. So what’s with this box? I won’t fit into that,’ I said laughing.

  ‘It’s not to get into. Let’s see what’s in it. This is Christian by the way. Can we come in?’

  They entered my room and Christian opened the box and laid out some suits, ties, and shoes.

  ‘Here’s a suitcase for all your current clothes.’

  I opened it and agreed it would take all I managed to bring with me. ‘A red tie is out of the question for a start.’

  ‘Good point,’ Ralph said rolling up the tie in his hands. ‘It’s more a matter of what fits. The icing on the cake is still to come.’ A wicked smile came over his face.

  ‘Am I getting my passport back yet?’ I asked.

  ‘Not just yet, Robert. You will see why in a mo
ment.’

  It was plain that he was not ready to tell me everything.

  I tried on the shirts with a 14-inch collar. I laid out two ties which seemed to match like cup and saucer. A pair of size eight brown shoes fitted like gloves—I was pleased with my new outfit.

  ‘So where’s the icing?’

  ‘Okay take off your shirt and come through to the bathroom.’

  Christian had filled the sink with lukewarm water and placed a stool in front of it. In his hand, he had a bottle.

  I bent over the sink and closed my eyes. His hands rubbed my scalp as if he were vigorously scratching a dog. It was pleasant—the first time I had had my hair washed by anyone since I was a small boy. When he had finished I opened my eyes to see the water as black as coal. He wiped my face clean and I stood in front of the mirror. My fair hair was as black as the night. He asked me to sit down once more.

  ‘I brought Christian along because he is a barber.’

  He cut my hair and gave me a central parting. Now my face in the mirror was unrecognisable – even to me. Goodness knows what Morag would think.

  A close-up photo was taken. In fact, three were taken. I realised why.

  ‘You guys are very thorough. I bet you have done this before.’

  It was a somewhat rhetorical question and it deserved the lack of a reply it got.

  They stayed a further half hour, making sure I had made no other arrangements and that I would be ready at 6 p.m. on Monday evening to be driven to the airport, two hours before departure. I’d get my passport back then. Indeed it would show me with black hair and a somewhat comical central parting. At least that was how I saw it.

  On Sunday it was far from quiet. Church bells woke me and the voices of choirs seemed to be everywhere. I found myself kneeling beside my bed. It was a prayer I felt I had to make, to help secure my return home without incident and to give me a sense of calm courage.

  I could not eat breakfast. My stomach was in a spin. So I walked around the compound boundary wall like a caged prisoner waiting for his execution.