Caught in a Cold War Trap by Miller Caldwell - Book Tour
Caught in a Cold War Trap
by Miller Caldwell
by Miller Caldwell
Summary:
Listening to a Radio Moscow broadcast on holiday on Jura, Glasgow schoolboy Robert Harvie finds
errors in the programme which he reports to the Russians. Then, as a student, the Soviets give him
a grant, and so Robert is inadvertently compromised. His first job takes him to Ghana, and soon he
has murder on his hands. How can he escape Soviet attention?
errors in the programme which he reports to the Russians. Then, as a student, the Soviets give him
a grant, and so Robert is inadvertently compromised. His first job takes him to Ghana, and soon he
has murder on his hands. How can he escape Soviet attention?
Information about the Book
Title: Caught in a Cold War Trap
Authors: Miller Caldwell
Release Date: 27th February 2020
Genre: Historical
Page Count: 172
Publisher: Clink Street Publishing
Excerpt
Have
you ever been to the island of Jura? Not many people have. If you are a whisky
connoisseur you possibly toured the island’s distillery to taste the Isle of
Jura single malt. Perhaps you were a climber assaulting the famous Paps of
Jura, or a sailor assessing the treacherous cauldron of the Corryvreckan
whirlpool from the safety of land. Maybe you needed to imbibe the presence of
George Orwell (aka Eric Blair) who completed Nineteen Eighty-Four at Barnhill
on the north of the island. That’s about all you can do on Jura, which is why
not many go there. That however, may be its attraction. I was there during the
Cold War and there my spying career took roots. I was on a family holiday in
July 1967. In the third week, my life changed forever.
My
name is Robert Harvie and on that holiday I turned sixteen years of age. My
father was a Church of Scotland minister. Minister’s families were not rich, so
the holidays were the only real perks we enjoyed. Dad would bring four sermons
with him each summer and the pulpit exchange was complete when our manse in
Glasgow was occupied by the minister whose manse we lived in for a month. We
usually enjoyed somewhere with fresh sea air, while the other minister and his
family explored the culture of the Gallus Glaswegians, their numerous parks and
the animated city which ‘Smiles Better’ with its keen sense of humour.
It
was a wet morning. I remember that well. A real humdinger of a downpour, I
heard my father say. I stood in the small north facing wooden porch while the
salty air filled my lungs. The rain made the nearby coastline of Mull of
Kintyre invisible. I cursed this four-week island break for being neither
summer, nor a holiday. I longed to be home in the city engaging in the many
different interests I had.
By
lunchtime, the rain had retreated. A tiny patch of blue sky fought through the
grey cloud, offering a ray of hope. The land in slow progress began to have a
re-birth. Colours became vibrant once more and the single track road’s tarmac
glistened. I focussed on a snail crossing the road. It was not risking a car’s
approach; few cars were on the island but I feared a seagull might be tempted
to devour the slow-moving creature. I ran towards it in haste. I picked up the
snail and placed it on the grass verge. It felt good—a good deed accomplished
on a boring day. The snail was insecure and unwilling to reappear from its
shell at first. I waited in silence. It did too. Then I smiled as it continued
its journey into grassy cover.
I
turned around and saw the sun settle on a verdant hillock behind the manse. I
decided to get to its summit and take the family Bush radio with me. My mother
approved my plan and I set off. It was a steep climb and my route was
circuitous—to avoid calf strain. I stopped and turned around. I saw a tanker in
the distance. It moved slowly like that reluctant snail I helped cross the
road. I imagined myself on the ship, going somewhere exotic. It was sailing
down the Firth of Clyde after all, and that perhaps meant an American trip,
even South America. There again it might just be going to Ireland. My thoughts
came back to land.
The
swirling wind dictated which way my blond hair would flow as I arrived
breathless on the crest of the hill. My foot caught a heather clad mound. Then
I saw I had caused a disturbance to the zigzag of an angry adder. It moved like
a retracting hose away from me and I relaxed. I forgot to mention—Jura had a
number of vipers lurking in the undergrowth in the hills. On warm sunny days,
they could be seen on any open land squirming around on the warm ground. I
found a flat grassy bank and sat down.
The
Bush radio gave me the Home Service and the Light programme. I could not
concentrate on their urban offerings so changed the button at the top to short
wave and turned the dial. I caught some French programme and lingered to hear
an excited high-pitched Parisian woman. It could advance my French studies,
which would resume in two weeks’ time back at school. However, after I had
heard a sentence or two of her rapid French fire I could not follow her line of
thought. I turned the dial further on. This time I heard a farming report. I
gave up re-tuning. I kept the station on and lay back to absorb some sun. I
could have fallen asleep in a matter of moments but there was something odd
about the programme.
The
announcer spoke about English Ayrshire cows. What a howler. That was akin to
saying Eccles cakes come from Aberdeen. There was more to confuse me. The
reporter spoke about the 12 coal mines in Suffolk, the powerhouse of energy for
the south of England. Suffolk coal? I knew these facts to be wrong and waited
for the punch line. It never came. When the programme ended the announcer
informed me that Farming Matters would broadcast at the same time next week, on
Radio Moscow.
It
was not a comedy after all, but an inaccurate description of British farming
and land use. I felt indignation; an urge to respond, to clear up their
misinformation. After all, I had little else to occupy my time. So that night
in bed I wrote a letter explaining that Ayrshire cows were from Ayrshire, in
Scotland, and Suffolk was farming land and did not have a coal seam—as I
recalled from my school geography notes.
The
following day I took my letter, addressed to Radio Moscow, Moscow, U.S.S.R. to
the Craighouse post office, which was in a cottage. A red post box outside gave
the clue that the postmistress lived inside. I entered setting off a bell
clanger above my head. A woman came through from her lounge, closed the door
behind her and sat down on a floor screeching wooden chair by her ink padded
desk. She read the address.
‘Moscow?
That’s foreign,’ she confirmed in a matter-offact voice and opened a book. Two
fingers ran down the columns like sprinters. ‘Anything in the letter I should
know about?’ she asked.
I
hesitated. My heart seemed to stop beating for a moment. I supposed I could
share its contents with her. ‘I have written to them to show there were
mistakes in one of their programmes.’
She
looked at me through horn-rimmed glasses. ‘I don’t need to know what you write.
So, is it just paper inside?’
I
nodded somewhat embarrassed. She took her fingers from the list then snapped
the book closed.
‘Then
that’s nine pence postage. It might take a few days to get there.’
Phew,
I expected to pay more. She returned the letter to me and I took it to the post
box outside. As it dropped down into dark oblivion I wondered how soon she
would retrieve it and have it sent seaward, landward and forward to Moscow.
Author Information
I retired at the age of 53 as I found I had mild cognitive impairment MCI. This is a condition which gives me a poor memory but a sharp mind. It was difficult to find work that would take me and so I decided to write books. Sixteen years later, I have written twenty three books with another two yet to be published. I have learned the book writing skills though writing clubs and writers magazines. Over the years I find my writing is much better received. I am seen as a novelist but I have three illustrated children's books, several biographies and three self help books as well. My website sags with the volume. But I cannot be pigeon holed. It depends what theme obsesses my thinking, as that will be my next book.
I have been on the committee of the Society of Authors in Scotland and have been their Events Manager.
I am due to speak at next year's Wigtown Book Festival as A Reluctant Spy will be a documentary by then.
That reminds me I have an agent. A Literary as well as a Film agent in Mathilde Vuillermoz.
With her on board I will release some of my self published books through her.
Without an agent it is becoming more difficult to attract traditional publishers.
So I remain optimistic and find like a graph, my trajectory is currently on an upswing.
I am due to speak at next year's Wigtown Book Festival as A Reluctant Spy will be a documentary by then.
That reminds me I have an agent. A Literary as well as a Film agent in Mathilde Vuillermoz.
With her on board I will release some of my self published books through her.
Without an agent it is becoming more difficult to attract traditional publishers.
So I remain optimistic and find like a graph, my trajectory is currently on an upswing.
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