“Colonel Felter—he’s in the house—has brought you proof of that, General, believe me,” Father interrupted.
“—and if this is actually so, why the United States government does not believe my government is perfectly capable, if this man should come here and start an armed rebellion against the Congo . . . why the army I have the honor to command cannot arrest him, try him, and stand him before a firing squad.”
“That’s the last thing we want to happen, Joseph,” Jack said. “We want to keep the sonofabitch alive.”
“What?”
“What we want to do, General,” Father said, “is very quietly— ‘invisibly’ may be a better word—help you frustrate everything Guevara tries to do. We want him humiliated, not turned into a martyr.”
“Whose idea is that?” Mobutu asked incredulously.
“President Johnson’s,” Father said.
Mobutu looked at Jack, who nodded.
“Why should I believe that?” Mobutu asked, and looked toward the house, obviously seeking Dr. Dannelly.
Jack followed Mobutu’s glance. Dannelly was not visible, but Colonel Sanford T. Felter was. He had apparently just that moment come out of the house and was standing on the patio where Finton had stood, with the same Congolese paratrooper who had pointed his rifle at Finton now pointing it at Felter.
Felter was in uniform, complete to jump boots and green beret. He looked up with contempt at the paratrooper’s face, and pushed the muzzle of the rifle away with his hand.
Mobutu called out to the paratrooper to let him pass, and when the paratrooper stepped aside, Felter marched off the patio and across the lawn toward them.
Jack thought very much the same thing his father had thought when Lieutenant Colonel Craig Lowell had appeared at his door in Ocean Reef.
Christ, he has more medals than Patton!
Felter walked up to the table.
“Joseph, may I present my chief, Colonel Felter?” Jack said. “Sir, this is Lieutenant General Mobutu.”
Felter saluted.
“An honor, sir,” he said.
Mobutu returned the salute.
“Please join us, Colonel,” Mobutu said in French. “And let us know what you think of our Congolese beer.”
“Thank you, sir,” Felter said, and helped himself to a beer before sitting down.
“Major Lunsford was just telling me that despite the terrible things this Cuban plans for my country—that is, if he actually does plan terrible things for my country, of which I am yet to be convinced—that the President of the United States wants him kept alive. And I had just asked him why I should believe either thing.”
“General,” Felter said. “Insofar as Guevara’s intentions are concerned, I’ve got material in my briefcase that should remove any doubts you may have. And I hope this will remove any doubts you might have about President Johnson.”
Felter handed Mobutu a small, nearly square envelope.
Mobutu opened it, read it, and then laid it on the table where Jack could see it.
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D. C.
January 12, 1965
Lieutenant General Joseph D. Mobutu Chief of Staff, the Army of the Republic of the Congo
By Hand
Dear General Mobutu:
This will introduce Counselor-to-the-President of the United States Colonel Sanford T. Felter, USA, who has my absolute confidence and speaks for me.
Lyndon B. Johnson
LYNDON BAINES JOHNSON
Mobutu looked at Felter for a long moment before finally speaking.
“So you are a little more than a parachute officer, Colonel?” Mobutu said.
“Like yourself, General, I am a parachute officer whom fate has chosen to give additional duties.”
Mobutu chuckled.
“I will have to give this matter some thought,” Mobutu said.
By that he means he wants to ask Dannelly what he thinks he should do, Jack thought. Which means we’re right back at square one. His decision will be based on whether or not Finton can convince Dannelly that we’re doing the righteous thing in the eyes of God.
“Of course,” Felter said.
[ EIGHT ]
Captain Jean-Philippe Portet showed up fifteen minutes later, interrupting Major Lunsford’s lecture on the training of Special Forces soldiers, and the composition of Green Beret A and B Teams, which Mobutu had obviously found fascinating.
He and Mobutu embraced warmly, and when Captain Portet helped himself to a beer, Mobutu asked for another.
“It’s good to have you back, my friend,” Mobutu said. “I have missed you.”
“And I have missed you,” Portet said, tapping the neck of his beer bottle against Mobutu’s, then slumping into one of the chairs. “And I’m going to miss the house—the Congo—very much. I can only hope it won’t take long.”
“What are you talking about?” Mobutu asked, confused.
“You don’t know, obviously,” Captain Portet said. “I thought Jacques or Colonel Felter would have told you.”
Mobutu flashed a look of annoyance at both Jack and Felter. “Told me what?”
“Jacques is not the only one who’s been conscripted,” Portet said.
“Conscripted?” Mobutu asked. “You mean into the Army?”
“Not exactly,” Captain Portet said. “But into government service. ”
“Can they do that?” Mobutu asked incredulously.
“Well, it’s about the same thing that happened to you, Joseph,” Captain Portet said. “I know you didn’t want to remain chief of staff. . . .”
In a pig’s ass, he didn’t, Jack thought.
“You had done your military service, as I had, and as Jacques is now doing,” Portet said. “You had earned the right to take off your uniform and put soldiering behind you. But duty called. There was no one better qualified than you to command the army, and you knew it.”
“I saw it as my duty,” Mobutu said. “You and I talked about it.”
“And when we talked about it, we talked about it meaning that keeping the position would mean a great loss of income for you.”
“I saw it as my duty,” Mobutu repeated modestly.
Christ, he’s playing this for Father’s benefit, maybe for Colonel Felter’s, too, but he really wants Lunsford to see what a noble man, what a patriot, he is. He’s glad my father gave him the opportunity.
“How long did that last?” Portet asked.
“Eight days,” Mobutu said. “Kasavubu and Lumumba should have known that after Independence the Force Publique would not serve under Belgian officers. I told them both the Force Publique would mutiny, and it did.”
“And you knew then that only you could stop the mutiny. . . .”
“They saw me as a fellow soldier, one who understood their concerns,” Mobutu said. “I did what had to be done.”
You made colonels—including yourself—out of Force Publique sergeant majors, majors out of sergeants, lieutenants out of corporals, and every private who could read and write got to be a sergeant, Jack thought. But, I have to admit, you did stop the mutiny. Those were hairy times.
“And I know, Joseph, for we talked about it then, that it was only with the greatest reluctance that you became involved in the trouble between Kasavubu and Lumumba; you would have preferred to hold yourself and the Army distant from dirty politics.”
“Lumumba proved incapable of governing,” Mobutu said. “I was forced to chose between them, for the good of the Congo.”
“Seizing control of the government for Kasavubu was something you had to do,” Captain Portet said. “And history will record that as soon as you could, you gave the government back to the people.”
“I did not want to be secretary of state for national defense,” Mobutu said, “that was thrust upon me. I tried to tell Lumumba that Moise Tshombe was a Communist, but he wouldn’t listen,” Mobutu added righteously.
“The damage he has done to the Congo is by
no means over,” Captain Portet said. “He let the noses of the Russian and Chinese camels under the flap of the tent.”
“I will meet fire with fire if they try something like that again,” Mobutu said. “The Congolese Army is now prepared to defend the Congo against any enemy.”
Does he believe that? Christ, I hope not.
He’s liable to decide the way to prove to Lunsford that he’s in charge and that every day, in every way, everything’s getting better and better is to refuse to let us send the teams in.
“Joseph,” Captain Portet said, “I didn’t mean to get into all this again.”
Mobutu waved a hand to show he understood.
“What I wanted to do was tell you that, in my own way, I am going to do what you did. My country has asked for my help, and I see it as my duty to do what I can.”
“What will you be doing?” Mobutu asked, almost impatiently.
Dad could have spent all afternoon here letting Lunsford know what a great man Joseph Désiré Mobutu is, and Mobutu would have loved every second of it.
“The war in Vietnam is growing larger by the day,” Portet said. “They need my help in setting up an air operation, passenger and freight, to augment the Air Force, which isn’t large enough to handle the job itself.”
“It was large enough to send a fleet of transports to Stanleyville, ” Mobutu said.
“And doing so is what taught them they need a supplemental air fleet, and now.”
“When will you be going? And for how long?”
“Almost immediately,” Portet said, “and for at least a year.”
Mobutu didn’t reply.
“Which is going to pose problems for Air Simba,” Portet went on. “I’m going to have to find someone to manage it, and I have even been thinking of putting it up for sale.”
Mobutu looked at him.
“I can think of someone to manage it,” he said. “And if you’re not asking too much, perhaps I can even come up with a group to take it off your hands.”
“I would be grateful if you could, Joseph,” Captain Portet said.
“Nonsense, Jean-Philippe,” Mobutu said. “We have been friends for a long time. Friends help one another, no?”
Particularly, Jack thought, unkindly, when the helper, in helping the helpee, gets to buy something like Air Simba at a distress price, less fifty percent.
And then he remembered what had happened in the casino in Baden-Baden just before he’d gotten his draft notice. His parents had been on vacation there, and he’d had a forty-eight-hour lay-over in Brussels and he’d driven down to join them.
After an initial run of luck playing vingt-et-un, he’d drawn a king to a ten and a two, and gone bust. He had gone through not only the money he had had in his pocket but two monthly pay-checks from Air Simba.
When he stood up and turned from the table, his father had been standing behind him. He had been so concentrated on the cards that he hadn’t been aware of it.
“Been there long?” he’d asked.
“Long enough,” his father had said, and handed him a drink of scotch. “I thought you probably would need this.”
“To precede a lecture on the price of gambling?”
“Hey, not only wasn’t I dealing the cards, or holding you down in your chair, but you’re a big boy now. If you want to go bust trying to break the bank at Baden-Baden, that’s your business. ”
“Sorry, Dad,” he’d said, genuinely contrite. “I don’t like making an ass of myself with people—especially you—watching.”
“You want to know what you did wrong?” his father had asked.
“Gamble?”
“There’s nothing wrong with gambling—life is a gamble. But what you haven’t learned is when to quit. When the cards are running against you, you have to take what you’ve got left, and get up from the table. That leaves you with a stake for the next time you sit down to play.”
That’s what the old man is doing here, knowing when to quit, and walking away from this game with a stake—maybe a little one, but a stake—to play again, this time with the CIA.
Dr. Dannelly and Mr. Finton came out of the house a few minutes later.
“About ready for lunch, Joseph?” Captain Portet asked. “And where would you like to eat? Here, or in the house?”
Mobutu didn’t reply.
Finton came off the patio and walked toward them; Dr. Dannelly stayed on the patio.
Mobutu, without a word, got up and walked across the lawn to the house, then followed Dannelly inside.
“Noki,” Captain Portet called out in Swahili. “Lunch, here, whenever you’re ready.”
Noki and Nimbi had just finished setting a table when Dannelly and Mobutu came out of the house.
With Dannelly following him, Mobutu walked directly across the lawn to the luncheon table and sat down at the head of it. Dannelly sat down beside him. Mobutu signaled for Noki to get him a beer, then smiled and waved at Father Lunsford, Felter, Finton, and the Portets to join him.
Jean-Philippe Portet thought: The first time Joseph Désiré Mobutu sat at my table, he was genuinely surprised at the invitation, and was made uneasy by the choices he was going to have to make between three forks, three spoons, and two knives. And I told him what my father had told me—if you don’t know which fork to use, watch your host—and he was grateful.
But of course, he was then Sergeant Major Mobutu of the Force Publique, and he’s now Lieutenant General Mobutu, chief of staff of the Congolese Army. Now he sits at the head of my table—any table in the Congo—and doesn’t have to worry about his manners.
“Sit by me, Major,” Mobutu said to Lunsford, pointing to the chair across from Dannelly.
“And where would you have me sit, Joseph?” Captain Portet asked.
Mobutu looked at him coldly, but then smiled.
“Am I in your chair, Jean-Philippe?” he asked.
“If you are at my table as my old friend, you are,” Captain Portet said. “If you are sitting there as chief of staff of the Congolese Army, you’re not. The chief of staff, like a 250-kilo gorilla, can sit wherever he wants to.”
A look of alarm—My God, is Portet going to make Mobutu angry now?—flickered across Felter’s usually unreadable face.
Mobutu smiled, but there was no telling what the smile meant.
“In that case, let me say something to Colonel Felter as one soldier to another,” Mobutu said. “And then we can have our lunch.”
He looked at Dannelly, then at Felter.
“Your ambassador—I mentioned his French leaves something to be desired—apparently did not make it clear to President Kasavubu what he was proposing,” Mobutu said. “He gave him the impression the U.S. government wanted to send troops here. That’s obviously out of the question, and Kasavubu told him so. The Congolese Army is perfectly capable of dealing with the present emergency, and any emergency in the future, including the Cuban Guevara. That is not to say the Congolese Army might not find it useful to have the assistance, in a purely training capacity, of someone with the expertise of Major Lunsford, and with several caveats, I have no problem with that.”
“What are the caveats, General?” Felter asked.
“First, that it not appear that President Kasavubu has changed his mind. He is a strong-willed man, who—as you well know, Jean-Philippe—has great difficulty admitting he has ever made a mistake.”
“That’s certainly true, Joseph,” Captain Portet said.
“So, unfortunately, we are going to have to keep this purely military decision from him, you understand?”
“Yes, of course,” Felter said.
“That may be putting the cart in front of the horse. I would decide that your trainers, Colonel Felter, would be of use to the Congolese Army only if Colonel Supo agrees that they would be of use to him—”
“Colonel Supo?” Felter interrupted.
“He’s in charge of cleaning out the remaining insurgents in Oriental, Equatorial, and Kivu Provin
ces,” Mobutu said. “He’s already met Major Lunsford and Jacques. And second, it has to be clearly understood that your people would serve at Colonel Supo’s orders, and only at his pleasure.”
“Agreed,” Felter said immediately.
“Then I suggest that Major Lunsford and Jacques meet with Colonel Supo as soon as possible,” Mobutu said. “He’s in Stanleyville, or perhaps Costersmanville.”
“The army attaché has an airplane, an L-23, at his disposal,” Felter said. “Would you have any objection, General, if Jacques and Major Lunsford were to fly there using it?”
Mobutu thought that over before replying.
“Would there be room for Dr. Dannelly and one of my aides?”
“Sure,” Jack said.
Why is he sending Dannelly? So that he can report back what Supo said? His aide could do that. Maybe, even probably, to tell Supo that he really has the power to say no.
“Tomorrow morning?” Mobutu asked. “Say, eight o’clock at the airport.”
Felter nodded.
“Then it is done,” Mobutu said. “And we can have our lunch.”
He started to get up from the table.
“Sit there, Joseph,” Jean-Philippe Portet said. “I’ll sit here.”
He sat at the other end of the table.
Jack started to reach for his beer, when he saw that Dr. Dannelly’s head was bowed in prayer. With a quick look at Mr. Finton, he saw that he was also praying a silent grace, which didn’t surprise him. But then he glanced at Mobutu, wondering if Mobutu would honor the praying of the others.
One hand on his beer bottle, the chief of staff of the Congolese Army had his head bowed in prayer, too.
XII
[ ONE ]
The Residence of the Ambassador of the United States
Léopoldville, Republic of the Congo
1845 16 January 1965
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Ambassador, ” Colonel Aaron Jacobs said as he walked into the ambassador’s study. Another man, also in civilian clothing, followed him into the room.
Jacobs was a tall, muscular man who wore his hair in a crew cut. The ambassador was tall and thin and wore rimless spectacles. A pleasant-looking man in his thirties, who looked as if he had played baseball, not football, in college sat in a leather armchair, a drink in his hand.
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