Laughter in the Shadows

by Stuart Methven

  When at one point he expressed an interest in the outdoors, I gave him some copies of the National Geographic, featuring the wilderness attractions of Glacier and Yellowstone Parks. I told Boris it was unfortunate the Cold War prevented us from traveling to our respective countries. Boris changed the subject and left, taking the copies of National Geographic with him.

  After one of their chess matches, Gray had to leave quickly for a scout meeting. I told Boris this time he didn’t have any excuse for not staying, and I handed him a drink and asked him to sit down. We talked about the rigors of living in the tropics and being away from our homes for extended periods of time. I again brought up the subject of relations between the United States and the USSR, and before he could change the subject, I said that “as an air force officer,” Boris was aware of the consequences of a nuclear war, which could be set off by miscalculations or misunderstandings. I thought that mention of his air force affiliation would get a rise out of Boris, who had always passed himself off to me as a minor embassy official, but it didn’t. He said that even if I were right, he didn’t like discussing world politics, which didn’t interest him.

  When Boris came for his final match with Gray, I again asked him to stay briefly so we could talk. I promised not to keep him, but there was a “confidential matter” I wanted to discuss with him. Boris agreed to stay briefly because it was the last time he would be seeing me. Adjourning to my study, I asked Boris if he had ever thought about coming to the United States. I said that since he had been kind enough to teach my son the finer points of chess, I wondered if there was something I could do for him. I said I was just “thinking out loud” but wondered if in the future Boris might take a leave of absence and spend a year or more in the United States. I was sure he could obtain a high-paid consultancy with an American aerospace firm such as Boeing or United Technologies. He could have a farm on the steppes of Nebraska, a vacation dacha in the Rockies.

  Boris began to look uneasy, so before he could break off our conversation and leave, I reminded him I was just “thinking out loud.” I was surprised that, for once, Boris didn’t seem angry. I could see, however, that he was uncomfortable with the conversation.

  He finished his drink and said good-bye. I asked if we could meet again to continue our discussion. He shook hands but didn’t reply.

  The operation was down to the wire. I drafted a message to Headquarters asking for authorization to recruit “RUVOLGA.” The pitch would emphasize the dangers of a nuclear confrontation being triggered by false or misinformation. RUVOLGA, as a senior air force officer, was knowledgeable of Soviet nuclear plans and activities. If he could keep us advised of those plans and intentions, he would be well rewarded.

  The message advised that RUVOLGA would not be pressured at this meeting. He would be given time to reflect on the proposal and another meeting would be arranged to “continue the discussion.” The message said, “If RUVOLGA agrees to another meeting, will offer him substantial cash sum to be put in escrow in a Swiss bank account. He would also be guaranteed eventual resettlement in the U.S. with his family.”

  Although headquarters authorized making a recruitment pitch to RUVOLGA, the pitch didn’t work out as planned. A cable was sent to Headquarters summarizing the abortive operation.

  RUVOLGA listened to the initial pitch, shaking his head and angrily scolding St. Martin for abusing their friendship. St. Martin, hoping that RUVOLGA was merely exercising his “right of first refusal,” nodded and said he understood. After calming RUVOLGA down, he asked him if they could meet one more time. RUVOLGA seemed to be mollified and agreed to a “final” meeting, saying he would call St. Martin.

  When RUVOLGA called, he advised St. Martin that he was the embassy duty officer and had to remain at home by his phone. He suggested St. Martin come by his apartment and they could discuss “the matter in question” further.

  Checkmate

  I’d lived a long enough life to learn my lessons on the awful and frightful ways this world can be, [but] I had at least one more lesson ahead.

  —J. BROWN, Decorations in a Ruined Cemetery

  The cable went on to describe St. Martin’s recollection of the subsequent turn of events.

  Although I was disturbed by the proposed change of venue, I told the chief I believed I had to go through with the meeting to find out what RUVOLGA’s final decision was. The operation was down to the wire, and I wanted to find out if RUVOLGA had accepted the pitch and if not to terminate the operation.

  When I arrived at RUVOLGA’s apartment, a Soviet whom I had never seen before opened the door and led me inside. RUVOLGA was nowhere to be seen. Sitting behind a table in the middle of the room, another Soviet was thumbing through a dossier. He looked up and said, “Yours is an interesting file, St. Martin. Even though you have a history of running provocative operations against Soviet citizens, I commend your aggressive style, including your attempt to recruit RUVOLGA.

  “Now I have a proposition for you. You will ostensibly be allowed to recruit RUVOLGA and we will even permit him to sign a contract to that effect. In exchange, you will agree to cooperate with us and provide information on American intelligence activities in Southeast Asia.

  “In return for your ‘cooperation,’ I am offering you twenty-five thousand U.S. dollars,” he said, shoving a brown envelope across the table.

  “If you do not accept this generous offer, the Soviet ambassador will lodge a formal protest with the Samudran Foreign Office about your attempt to recruit a Soviet official on Samudran soil. The Samudran press will also be advised of your attempt to subvert a Soviet officer.”

  St. Martin reached over and took the envelope, saying he needed time to think over the offer. The Soviet replied that St. Martin had twenty-four hours in which to decide.

  Headquarters was advised that in light of this unexpected turn of events, and to avoid any adverse fallout from the RUVOLGA operation, St. Martin would leave Samudra as soon as possible to visit “critically ill” mother in the U.S.

  The twenty-five thousand dollars, probably counterfeit, was pouched to Headquarters.

  Soviet operations were put on hold, and the file on RUVOLGA was closed.

  PART III

  The Last Covert Action

  CHAPTER 10: Buwana

  Once every few years, even now, I catch the scent of Africa. It makes me want to keen, sing, clap up thunder, lie down at the foot of a tree and let the worms take whatever of me they can still use.

  —BARBARA KINGSOLVER, The Poisonwood Bible

  Buwana was discovered a decade before Columbus sailed for America by a Portuguese explorer seeking Prester John’s “Lost Kingdom.” Sitting astride the equator, Buwana is almost the size of Western Europe. Its central plateau is equatorial forest, and in the east mountains rise up to sixteen thousand feet.

  There are several hundred tribes in Buwana, including early pygmy inhabitants. Its jungles and rain forests shelter a variety of wild animals, including gorillas, rhinos, and leopards. The country has a plentiful supply of diamonds, copper, and most of the world’s cobalt, making it one of the richest countries in the world.

  The Congo River, second in length only to the Amazon, flows for three thousand miles through Buwana, cascading down over a series of waterfalls to Stanley Pool, where globs of water hyacinth temporarily impede its flow, then picks up speed again and crashes over Livingston Falls and a series of rapids until it finally empties into the Atlantic.

  The river was immortalized by Henry Stanley, a New York Herald journalist, whose search for a famous missionary ended with the celebrated line “Dr. Livingston, I presume?” His African explorations also caught the attention of King Leopold II of Belgium, who later “annexed” the country as his private fiefdom.

  The Final Call

  Chief of Station, Buwana. I had looked forward to running an African outpost, conjuring up muscled Paul Robesons chanting as they poled their pirogues past sunning crocodiles and splashing hippos.

 
The pace would be slow and easy. No more guerrilla tail chasing, insurgencies, and counterinsurgencies, winning hearts and minds. Back to the basics of chasing spies, collecting intelligence, and, in the case of Buwana, keeping the president happy.

  Of the children, only Megan accompanied us to Buwana. Laurie was studying for a degree in human resources, Kent was at the University of New Hampshire, and Gray was taking a year off from the University of Montana, putting college “on hold” while he thumbed his way through Central and South America. After a year south of the border in Central America, Gray arrived in Buwana and got a job working on the Inga Dam power project. He and a friend later embarked on an African journey, traveling by boat up the Congo River, walking and bumming rides through the Central African Republic and Chad, then on up to Algeria and Morocco, where their safari ended and Gray came down with hepatitis.

  Megan went off to school in Switzerland at Le Mans in Geneva, returning to Buwana between semesters. During a summer break, her two best friends, a brother and sister from Holland, were hit and killed by a drunken truck driver.

  Megan later returned to Le Mans, where she graduated, with her parents in attendance.

  For the new chief of station, the pace for the first six months was as expected, slow and easy. There was a brief flurry of activity with the “rumble in the jungle,” the world championship boxing match between Cassius Clay and George Foreman. Journalists and fight aficionados descended on the capital to watch Foreman train and Ali “sting-like-a-bee.” The bout was delayed for three weeks because of squabbling over contracts, but the two fighters eventually squared off at three in the morning to accommodate U.S. television viewers.

  Ali retained the diamond-studded world champion’s belt, and then the two fighters, retinues, and fans left before the rains came and Buwana returned to normal.

  Then the “OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE” landed on my desk.

  The Dark Continent

  We carry within us the wonders we seek without us: There is all Africa, and her prodigies in us.

  —SIR THOMAS BROWN

  Over the years, policy makers had largely ignored Africa. In the 1960s there had been a flare-up in the Belgian Congo when the rebels forced our officer in Kisangani to eat the American flag, but the Agency then became preoccupied with Southeast Asia and lost interest in Africa.

  After the fall of Saigon and the cessation of its operations in Southeast Asia, the Agency decided to pull in its paramilitary horns and go back to concentrating on its bread and butter tasks of gathering intelligence. The paramilitary poltergeists would soon be resurrected however. Operational storm clouds were building over Africa.

  CHAPTER 11: Angafula

  The last vestige of colonialism in Africa, Angafula was a Texas-size colony that lay two hundred miles south of the equator. Independence fevers had bypassed the Portuguese colony until the early 1970s, when long-silenced tribal drums began thumping war calls for freedom.

  The reverberations were picked up and relayed along the Potomac into the office of the “Metternich” of American foreign policy, who was deeply emerged in thought. Dr. Heinzleman asked about the source of these reverberations, and when told it was a Portuguese colony in Africa, he asked for an immediate briefing, which went as follows:

  Angafula boasts a four-hundred mile coastline of white sandy beaches. Its tropical forests are interspersed with coffee plantations. Elsewhere in the country are mineral deposits of copper, uranium, and diamonds. Angafula boasts a good infrastructure of primary and secondary roads, ports, rail lines, and airfields.

  The Angafulans are friendly and easygoing but prone to frequent bouts of internecine tribal warfare.

  Demonstrations against the colonial Salazar government in Portugal have recently broken out in Lunda, the capital city. Three major groups are in the forefront of these demonstrations:

  The Front for the Liberation of Angafula (FLA), led by “Reverend” Rebello, a mystic missionary

  The Union for the Total Independence of Angafula (UTIA), led by Juan Sanchez, a former soccer star.

  The Popular Movement to Free Angafula (PMFA), led by Augustus Sappho, a physician, poet, and alumnus of the Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow. Sappho’s organization receives substantial financial and material support from the Soviet Union.

  (Comment: The Soviets, whose geopolitical ambitions in Africa are well known, have targeted Angafula to gain an initial foothold on the continent. In return for their support to the PMFA, they are allowed to operate openly in Angafula without interference from the lame duck Portuguese government, which still administers the colony. The Portuguese colonial administrators, resigned to the colony’s independence, support Sappho and the PMFA.

  (The Soviets assume the United States is too traumatized from the Vietnam War to interfere in Africa and feel free to pursue their expansionist goals in Angafula without American interference.)

  The allusion to a “traumatized United States” rankled National Security Adviser Heinzleman, who knew more about Soviet geopolitical ambitions than anyone in Washington. He drafted a memorandum for the president, urging action “when our determination is being questioned, to counter Soviet moves in Angafula and preempt its loss to Communism of this key African country.”

  The Last Covert Action was about to begin.

  The Last Covert Action

  A perfect tragedy is the noblest production of human nature.

  —JOSEPH ADDISON, The Spectator

  I received the cable at midnight, ordering me to be prepared to implement a large covert action program to support two independence movements across the river in neighboring Angafula.

  I was to brief President Bongo on the program and ask for his support in providing cover and logistical support. The cable said further details would follow.

  I could hardly believe it. The “funeral-baked meats” were still warm on the table and we were off again. Another clarion call to covert action by the producers of the Bay of Pigs and the saga of the montagnards. Saddle up for a last crusade. Hopefully, the Angafulans weren’t aware of our last crusade, which lay in tatters on the Plaines des Jarres and in the highlands of Indochina.

  Familiar phrases threaded through the “details” that followed: “sheep-dipped advisers,” “nonattributable” weapons, “sterile” air support.

  Since the operation was to be staged out of Buwana, my first task was to brief President Bongo and then ask him to provide cover and logistical support.

  Bongo

  Bongo Wa Za Zenga, the “all powerful warrior,” was christened John Wishful when he was born in 1930. Bongo was educated in mission schools, where he learned to speak French and, according to his teachers, was difficult to control, respecting only the authority of Mama Selo, his mother. Troublesome boys like Bongo were sent off to the Force Publique, King Leopold’s private army. Bongo served for seven years in the Force Publique, where he read voraciously and studied military tactics and history.

  When his service contract was over, he married the fourteen-year-old Anne Marie Lisette and in 1955 went to Brussels, where he dabbled in journalism. In Brussels he came in contact with Buwanan intellectuals, including Patrice Bulanda with whom he became friends and later assassinated.

  In 1965 Colonel Bongo ousted President Suwango, declared himself president, and then ruled the country for the next thirty-two years.

  President and Marshal of the Army Bongo was ambitious, ruthless, generous, street-smart, and endowed with a prodigious memory. I remember meetings with Bongo when I would be talking to him while he listened to “Europe 1” on the radio and talked on the phone with his generals. After ten minutes or more, he would hang up and resume our conversation, referring back to my last phrase before he had broken off the conversation.

  Le Guide, as he liked to be called, fostered the legend that when he was a young boy, he had killed a leopard. After he became president, he wore a leopard-skin toque cocked on the side of his head and was seldom without his carved ivory walki
ng stick, which he used both as a pointer and to jab into dozing subordinates. He insisted that all government ministers and officials wear the abacos (“down with the suit”), a jacket with no lapels, symbolizing Buwana’s break from colonial rule.

  Our “special relationship” with Bongo dated back to the 1960s, when he credited our chief of station with saving him during an assassination attempt. The special relationship continued with COSs that followed and was not always appreciated by the American ambassador. The ambassador is the designated contact for a chief of state, although the protocol was often skirted in Buwana. Early on in my tour in Buwana, the ambassador made it clear I was to keep him advised before and after any meeting with the president, which I did. Unfortunately, President Bongo and his minister didn’t like the ambassador’s recommendations that the government cut down the profligate spending habits of its ministers. Bongo staged a phony coup, Le Coup Manque, which he used as an excuse to have the ambassador recalled. The same ambassador went on to a distinguished career as ambassador to a number of capitals, where his talents were more appreciated.

  I had developed a fairly good relationship with Bongo, who frequently summoned me for early-morning meetings at his hilltop residence located next to the barracks of the Presidential Guard. It was also just up the hill from his private zoo, where giant crocodiles basked in the sun and warned off unwelcome visitors.

  The president’s residence overlooked Stanley Pool and the capital of the Republic of Congo on opposite riverbank. My meetings with the president were informal, and I usually was called when Bongo wanted to relay his views to Washington or to lecture me about our foreign policy missteps in Africa.

  Bongo could also be ruthless. During one of our meetings, he scolded me for my “close association” with one of his officers. He said he suspected the officer of being “disloyal,” and I assured Bongo I had never discussed politics with the officer, who was helping us out on logistics problems having to do with our joint program. Bongo, however, being himself an inveterate coup plotter, was convinced the captain was plotting against him and had him executed.