It was a black air-conditioned Daimler, Corps Diplomatique, of course. The flag on the bonnet was covered, which indicated that the British Ambassador was not inside.
I sat in the back with Ralph. As the car approached the diplomatic residential quarters I sat back and slunk down in the seat. Meanwhile, my heart was bounding like a cheetah.
Ralph told me we were passing the Russian embassy. I ignored, with a nervous laugh, his invitation to stop and say my fond farewells.
Ralph shook my hand. ‘I will stay with you at the airport, but I thought I’d like to shake the hand of a defecting Russian spy. We don’t deal with many of them.’
‘A very reluctant spy you mean? I was trapped from the day I wrote to them, to correct an error on the radio. It was so easy to get pulled further into their web.’
‘Seems so. Anyway, we are about to get you out. Remember to relax. You will be with your fiancée very soon.’
The luxurious car slowed down and the driver came to open my door. The oven-like heat of the country hit me once more.
Inside the airport, there were traders selling fruit, Pioneer biscuits and sweets. Pioneer seemed to a popular product name. I ignored all of them. British Caledonian would provide a sumptuous meal and I had that on my mind momentarily while a more pressing matter took over.
‘Am I getting my passport back yet?’
‘Yes, sorry. Gosh I should have given it to you in the car.’
Ralph handed the passport to me keeping his hand over its front face as he did so.
‘Okay, I’ll stand over there.’ He pointed to a window from where he could watch the runway. ‘You book in your baggage then come back to me.’
The British Airways check-in desk was staffed by a local Ghanaian woman. I stood in line and watched her as she checked through the passengers ahead of me. She did so very efficiently without making much eye contact. Unusually for a Ghanaian, she seemed cold, almost uninterested in her work. There was a minimum of conversation made.
I approached her with my ticket, passport and luggage. I saw her name was Betty. She took my case, labelled it and placed it on a series of metal rollers. She gave the case a kick and it disappeared through a dark plastic sheet taking it out of sight.
Suddenly she smiled at me. ‘So, what do you write?’
I was taken aback. ‘Oh, lots of things,’ I said as my mind went into overdrive.
‘What did you cover in Ghana? What have you said about us?’
‘Good things. You are a friendly country with beautiful countryside, wildlife and a great supply of fruit and vegetables,’ I smiled.
‘But you have not been to the north. It’s almost a desert. Did you know that?’
‘Indeed I do, I visited Tamale and Bolgatanga,’ I thought that would show I had covered her country from head to toe.
‘Did you write about the murders in Sandema?’ she asked looking up at me.
I realised I had been stupid to mention the north.
‘I arrived too late to cover the story. Anyway, the investigation wasn’t making any progress. It lacked interest for the papers in Europe,’ I said returning my eyes to my passport in her hands.
She snapped the passport shut. ‘Have a good flight, Mr Clark.’ I thanked her and placed my new passport in my back pocket.
‘Next please,’ she said even before had I left her desk.
I returned to Ralph.
‘So far, so good.’
He took my wrist.
‘Don’t speak too soon. The Russian plane has just landed. Let’s sit over here besides some other travellers.’
We made our way over to a couple of vacant seats and sat down. Ralph had brought a Daily Graphic. He handed it to me.
‘Now cross your legs and bend over as if it is the most interesting thing you have ever read.’
I looked at the second back page, which featured a report of the Accra Olympics v Hearts of Oak game I had heard on the radio. I became engrossed in the report. As I turned back a page, I looked up. Standing only a few feet from me was Vitaly Karmanov, First Secretary of the Russian embassy.
My foot nudged Ralph’s shoe. I pointed behind the paper at the figure in front of me. ‘Russian diplomat,’ I whispered so quietly he bent forward.
‘What?’
‘I said, Russian—First Secretary,’ and pointed my finger as discreetly as I could.
‘Relax Peter,’ he replied.
But relax I could not. I turned to another page. Surely all Vitaly could see was a man with black hair and a central parting? For a moment he lingered and then he moved a few paces forward. I glanced up and he shook the hand of a traveller from Moscow. They were all smiles. Vitaly took his luggage and they passed us together. I heard his muffled speech. I wondered if Vitaly was telling him about the Russian speaking Scot who he would meet at the embassy. But it was my imagination out of control. They turned to leave the airport. Vitaly seemed to glance in my direction for a brief moment. Then he made for the exit without any further interest in me.
‘The sooner I am onboard the flight the better.’
‘We’ll just have to wait till it’s called, Peter. Relax, you are almost there. Don’t go and blow it now.’
Chapter 26 London in Disguise
I looked back on the past hour as the plane gathered speed along the runway. When its front wheels left the ground and the plane nosed skywards, I gasped. When the rear wheels lifted and the roofs of Accra grew smaller by the second, I knew I was safe from Russian clutches—for the time being. I relaxed more than I thought I ever could.
Before too long that longed-for evening meal was served and coffee followed. When the trays were gathered, the lights were dimmed. I placed the dark shades over my eyes, let my seat go back a few inches, took a deep breath and entered the land of Nod.
I awoke around 4 a.m. Most of my fellow passengers were still asleep, but I could not return to that state. I took a page out of a notebook in my bag and began a letter.
We landed at Heathrow at 5:45 a.m. I was not in a rush to leave the security of the plane and continued sitting while other passengers stood impatiently in the passageway. Eventually, they moved off and I brought up the rear.
Would I be briskly arrested by MI5 or would they take a more gentle approach to my detention? Immigration control took a cursory glance at my passport. After all, they could not have been looking for a Russian spy. I was then free to collect my baggage and head for the Customs area. The ‘Nothing to Declare’ lane formed a queue. It seemed every tenth passenger was asked to show the contents of their cases. I felt we were all counting whether we were the tenth in line. There was no interest in my progress. Then I appeared in the clear, convinced I had an honest face. It did not take long to see three suited men eyeing me. I smiled at them. They smiled back.
‘Mr Clark?’ the tallest man asked.
‘Yes, I was expecting to meet you.’
The car took us to the banks of the Thames. It took more than an hour. Then I was seated behind a table.
‘Good morning Mr Clark. I trust you are not too tired after your long flight?’
‘No, not at all,’ I said apprehensively to a mushroom suited man in his late thirties.
‘I am Mr Gray. I need to ask some questions.’
‘Of course,’ I said wishing to seem obliging.
‘I have, of course, received much information about you from Ambassador Copland, in Accra. I’d like to hear your story.’
‘I trust you have the time?’
Mr Gray got out his notepad. ‘I’m ready when you are, and I’ve got all day.’