Life in the Russian Embassy, Accra.
Chapter 15
Life at the Russian Embassy in Accra
Shortly after noon there was a knock on the door. Two Ghanaians appeared. Dressed in formal white trousers and jackets, the contrast with their skin was startling. One had a tray with two sandwiches, a bottle of water, an orange and a banana. The other brought a multi colourer towel with him.
‘For a swim this afternoon, after you have eaten, sir,’ said the towel bearing servant.
‘All other lunches will be downstairs, but today, the lunch tray is here for you,’ said the other.
Then they departed. I did not even ask their names. There was so much on my mind.
I enjoyed the meal, simple as it was, and wondered if the evening meal might be more formal. Then I unrolled the swimming towel to discover a pair of swimming trunks. They were not new, but they had been washed. Who was I to reject them?
I took a pen and a pad of paper from the bedside table and went down to the pool an hour after my lunch.
The pool was on higher ground at the end of the garden. I passed a grass tennis court. The sun had baked it browner than green, but the surface looked flat and hard and ready for play.
The sun bore down on me, and so I was in the pool as soon as I was ready. The water was warm, with the smell of a recently applied cleansing agent. There were lanes marked out the bottom of the pool, but I ignored them as first I swam on my front contemplating drowning as a means to end my guilt in Sandema. A couple of lengths later I turned over onto my back as the sun beat down its rays to burn me. Purgatory must be like this I thought.
In both exercises, I was unable to relax. The murders lay heavily on my mind. Yet the Russian hospitality was welcome. The police investigation in the north was more problematic. Surely some will have concluded I was no longer there at the Pioneer factory and with a dash or two they could actually betray me. Yet I knew I was in the safest place, as an embassy gave its own immunity. How long for I wondered. Then a plan began to formulate in my mind. A plan to escape.
I found a lounge chair in the shade of a bowing palm tree and I was dry in no time at all. I lifted up the pad of paper and began to write to Morag. I told her about the pool and the tennis court first and that I was staying in Accra. I was sure that would please her. Her six weeks elective might coincide with my time in Accra, but it was too soon to determine that. The events in Sandema did not feature in my letter. That was for a later chat or would it be a confrontation? I wrote at length of how I was missing her and counting down the days till she arrived in Accra.
Having written and addressed the letter I closed my eyes. The sun was soporific and the humidity of the south of the country made me feel drowsy. I was not expecting company.
‘Is it Robert, the Scot?’ a female voice asked in Russian.
I shaded my eyes and saw before me a red polka dotted bikini-clad woman of around forty years of age. I confirmed that I was indeed Robert. ‘I am surprised you know who I am.’
‘You are the spy who killed that man Desoto.’
There was no point denying it. This woman was probably the wife of a senior Russian diplomat.
‘I can’t deny that.’ I replied as if it was a simple task.
‘A messy task, but so necessary. We can’t have defectors, can we?’
I made sure she saw me nod vigorously.
‘And your duties in the embassy, can I ask?’
She laughed. ‘My duty is to my husband Viktor, Second Secretary. My name is Darya.’
‘So you know why I am here?’
‘Of course. You are a fugitive. We will protect you. You are safe in this compound. It is Russia here.’
She lay down beside me on another lounger. My eyes closed at the brightness of the sun.
‘You don’t mind?’
I looked at her to understand her question
as she undid the top of her bra and cast it aside. She lay on her back.
‘I’m trying to get a suntan.’
‘I see,’ I said and got up to swim once more.
That night as we were about to sit down to a communal table, Vitaly drew me aside.
‘I was not aware you had a girlfriend coming to Accra?’
‘Ah, Morag. Yes, she is doing a six-week elective in tropical medicine at the Korle Bu teaching Hospital soon.’
‘That’s good. We hope to meet her sometime.’
‘She will be very busy,’ I said in haste, hoping to dissuade him from finding an espionage role for her.
‘I imagine she will be very busy indeed, but surely she will want to see you—and here you are?’
I smiled at him. ‘Yes, it could be a very welcome break for her. And me of course.’
‘Of course.’
He introduced me at the table as the northern agent who has been doing fine work for the Soviet nation. I smiled and acknowledged his comment. He then told everyone that I was not only Scottish but a descendant of the much-loved poet, Robert Burns. This proved very popular. I had to ask how he knew.
‘Utechin told us.’
‘Ah yes, I remember us reciting a Burns poem one day.’
The meal was a combination of Russian and Ghanaian food. Avocado with chopped onion and vinegar for the starter, followed by a hot goulash with dumplings and a fresh bowl of fruit with a dollop of ice cream. Oh, how I enjoyed that meal.
The following day I was summonsed to Vitaly Karamanov’s office, which was on the first floor looking over the front of the grounds.
‘Take a seat. I have some sad news for you.’
Sad news for me? I could not think of anything other than that they were about to put me out, leaving me to fend for myself.
‘Comrade Utechin died last night.’
There was a moment of silence as I absorbed the news.
‘I knew he had been attending the Tamale General Hospital. Of course he drank—’
‘You are right. He died of complications of cirrhosis in the liver.’
‘He certainly showed the signs of jaundice and I sometimes I saw some blood in the washbasin. He had been coughing up blood. I was glad he was, at last, going to the hospital but obviously, it was much too late.’
‘Yes, we knew of his drinking. He had been a good agent for so long—a soft job like running the Pioneer Peanut factory was his reward.’
Despite the despicable errand he gave me, he had been jovial at times and I had warmed to him. I felt Peace would miss him most.
‘Now I have two people in mind to take over. You can probably guess who.’
‘I think Peace Assare or Sammy Nkansa would be good candidates.’
‘Yes, but who would you chose?’
I took a moment to answer.
‘I would go for Peace. She is a strong woman and I think, almost a decade after independence, it should be a Ghanaian. She is such a capable woman. Mr Nkansa? He is not universally popular. Peace is.’
‘Then Peace it is. I’ll go up and tell her,’ Vitaly said in a matter of fact way.
‘The funeral, I should really attend,’ I suggested.
His smile disarmed me. ‘There will be no funeral here. Comrade Utechin’s body will be flown to Accra and we will fly it home. His funeral will be in Bologoye.’
‘Is that between Moscow and Leningrad?’
With a slight nod of his head and a broad smile he said, ‘you know your Russia well.’
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