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Miller H Caldwell, click here
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Living in the Embassy
Chapter 16
Supping in the Lion’s Den
Morag would be with me in just under two weeks and then I’d have to admit that living in the Russian Embassy had been necessary and not just a holiday.
I was contemplating the day as I prepared for my morning walk around the grounds. Yes, I would stop to smell the sweet bougainvillea or the flamboyant white frangipane amid tropical ferns. Then the bell jangled in the wooden glass fronted bell cabinet in my room. There was no denying whose spring coil it was. It was the Ambassador’s bell. He was summoning me to his office.
I knocked on his door and he shouted to me to come in. Misha Leskov—the Russian ambassador to Ghana was standing with his hand ready to shake mine.
‘Are you enjoying our hospitality?’ he asked by way of an opener.
‘I can’t fault it at all. I have made great use of the pool and the gardens. And of course, it has given me time to grow this beard,’ I said caressing the growth over my chin.
He laughed. ‘It suits you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I hope Morag will like it,’ the ambassador said.
He had obviously been aware of my letter. ‘I hope I can serve again if I can, but I realise Ghana may be out of the question—following Sandema.’
He returned to his seat and from a silver case took out a cigarette. He offered one to me but I shook my head.
He exhaled. ‘You must be wondering why I have brought you to my office.’
‘Well, it did surprise me.’
‘I have an assignment for you. On Saturday I have been invited to an evening of conversation and music at the British embassy. I want to take you with me.’
‘Me! Why me? That would be like supping in the lion’s den,’ I said proudly to have been given such consideration by the ambassador.
He laughed as he blew out grey smoke. ‘I’ll take you as my aide de camp. Speak English with a Russian accent. Then we separate. You begin to mix. Find out what’s happening. Listen to conversations. Adapt your story as you wish. You have a proven record as a liar. Keep it up.’
‘I see, sort of being the eyes and ears and remembering any significant information.’
‘Yes, and the not so interesting information too, of course.’
I was glad the ambassador thought I could be useful to him, but the British embassy was where I had been thinking of making my escape. I didn’t want to risk being identified too closely with the Russian ambassador.
The days leading up to Saturday crawled by. Yet I had no time to write to Morag. My mind was still dominated by the murders. A minister’s son brought up in the faith but still a murderer in the eyes of Sandema and elsewhere. It was uncomfortable beyond words can tell. My daily swims became twice daily though I kept my eyes from, by now, two Russian wives who sought over-all tans.
On Friday night, I was fitted with a dark blue suit with a short-sleeved blue shirt and tie. I tried on a selection of other clothes and they fitted fairly well. In the end, I decided to wear flannels and a bright and colourful Jeromi with intricate silver thread embroidered around the neckline.
On Saturday afternoon I had a siesta. It was four before I woke. My swim ended up being with two male embassy staff that seemed to know I was a spy. Everyone did. They asked a few questions. Our conversation, in Russian, was not stilted. They seemed to enjoy speaking to a westerner in their own language.
That evening at 6:45 p.m. it was as dark as fresh charcoal for burning. I set off with the ambassador on a journey of less than half-a-mile. The driver dropped us at the front door and drove away. There to greet us was a flunky who took our names and announced us as the Russian ambassador and his aide-de-camp.
We shook hands with the British ambassador and his charming wife and proceeded through the hallway to where there were open doors leading to the lawn. At the side of the staircase was a drinks table with bottles of local beer and glasses of champagne. Gin and tonics were ready to be served too with bottles of orange Fanta for the Tee-totals amongst us.
The ambassador went straight for the orange juice and after finishing one glass he drank another and then, with his hands free, began to circulate amongst the ambassadorial staff of many different nations.
I was pleased to see the Accra Police Band wore Jeromi shirts, as did many of the other guests. I circulated as much as possible away from the suited ambassadors looking for others more my age.
I encountered a group of British VSO teachers and nurses and had a lengthy chat with some of them. I was interested to hear that one young man was an economics teacher at the Navrongo secondary school. I could not help but ask him about the poisoning cases.
‘Oh yes, about a month ago. Well, the Kumasi police have returned home.’
‘So they got the culprit?’ I asked, feigning a general curiosity.
‘No, I don’t think so. They decided, as Sandema was so near the border of Upper Volta, that it made sense for the killer to cross over and make his escape from there. After all, they don’t get our news in Upper Volta, and we certainly don’t get theirs. So it looks like he’s got off scot-free,’ he laughed.
‘Scot free, it’s been a long time since I heard that expression,’ I laughed, wondering if he knew more than he said.
I mixed with a few more VSOs and then found myself talking to some missionaries whose work covered the country. They all seemed more concerned with their local communities rather than bothering much with contact with other towns and they had no reason to mention the deaths in the north. Rather they quizzed me about the Russian Orthodox Church. It was not something I knew much about, so I hid behind a heavy Russian accent and struggled to find the words required in response. Yet I probably spent almost twenty minutes with them.
Then the police band began to play. As the night’s entertainment for a British party, they played a selection of old English folk tunes—‘Greensleeves’, ‘Blow the Wind Southerly’ and ‘The Keel Row’ among them.
I approached the band as they came to the end of this collection of English songs. I said, ‘Excuse me, why not play some Highlife?’
The request produced smiling faces and the conductor took his cue from them, and suddenly the guests started to move their hips in time with the music. I caught the eye of Comrade Leskov and he smiled at me. I was certainly integrating.
On Sunday morning the Ambassador sat with me at breakfast to hear my thoughts and impressions.
‘So Robert, what did you think?’
‘It was enjoyable, after all, I have not been out of the embassy for over two weeks—I heard that the extra police that was drafted to the north have been called off the murder enquiry in Sandema.’
‘Really? Good.’
‘An economics teacher from Navrongo told me they had come to the conclusion that the killer crossed over to French Upper Volta and made his escape from there.’
‘Excellent. That means we can send you somewhere else, but not back north.’
I convincingly informed him I was ready to serve whenever and wherever that might be. Then my recollection of the previous night took hold of me.
‘You know about Northern Ireland?’ I asked.
‘Yes, a divided community, not so?’
‘Very much so. It’s a religious thing too. Protestant workers in command and Roman Catholics trodden on. Things are getting out of hand.’
‘I agree with your assessment, ripe for exploitation—but you didn’t pick up on that last night, I’m sure.’
‘But I did. One of the VSO teachers was a Catholic—from Belfast. He had flames coming out of his eyes he was so anti-British. He sees a civil war breaking out in mainland Britain. It’s not far off, he told me.’
‘I see.’
‘Yes, and he predicts more bombings will be coming to England soon.’
‘And where is this teacher working?’
‘He’s a science teacher at Ho in the Volta region.’ I told him the man’s name.
He took out his notepad and wrote the facts I had given him. ‘You have done well Robert. Very well indeed.’
‘Can you make use of this information?’ I asked.
His smile seemed wider than the river Volga. ‘Next week I have been recalled to Moscow. My superiors will take this on board. It sounds like something we could use to our advantage.’
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Web Site:
Caught in a Cold War Trap
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