That meant that at least the IG at Rucker would have to be told of Operation Earnest. It was possible, perhaps even likely, because of the allegations of special treatment of Bellmon’s son-in-law, that he would feel he had to make a report to the IG of the Third U.S. Army, in whose area Fort Rucker was located, and/or to Continental Army Command (CONARC), which supervised all training within the Continental United States. And the IGs at Third Army and CONARC might feel they were obliged to bring the IG of the Army into the loop.
The rule of thumb—too often proven true—for classified matters is that the more people who knew a secret, the greater the chance it would be compromised. It was not that any of the IGs would have loose mouths, but there were other people involved: The junior officers, noncoms, and civilian clerks who would handle the paperwork would also learn what was going on, and experience proved this would be tantamount to unlocking the door on a secret.
“I’m not finished,” Pappy said. “The L-23 Jack and I picked up at Wichita was supposed to go to the commanding general of III Corps at Fort Hood,” Pappy said. “He’s found out he’s not going to get it, and he’s highly pissed.”
“How do you know that?” Lowell asked.
“His aviation officer is an old pal of mine,” Pappy said. “He called me up and said, ‘Pappy, my boss found out you stole his airplane from Wichita, and he wants it back.’”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about, and he said, ‘Bullshit’ and hung up.”
“Great,” Lowell said.
Felter stopped his spoon halfway between his bowl of clam chowder and his mouth.
“This will have to be nipped in the bud,” Felter said calmly. “At both ends. Finton, call Mary Margaret and have her call the chief’s office and ask for an appointment for me at his earliest convenience, and have her prepare a letter, on White House stationery, with the ‘Counselor to the President’ signature block on it, addressed to the commanding generals of Rucker and III Corps stating that Colonel Lowell is dealing with a classified operation at my direction.”
“I’ll go back to the office and do it myself, sir,” Finton said.
“No, I need you for something else here. Call Mary-Margaret.”
“Yes, sir,” Finton said, and got up from the table.
“What did you fly up here, Pappy?”
“A Mohawk. I wanted to be able to get home for supper.”
“I want you to take Lowell to Hood, and stick around there until he sees the III Corps Commander, and then take him to Rucker.”
Pappy nodded his acceptance of the order.
Felter finished putting the spoonful of clam chowder in his mouth.
Waiters were just about finished clearing the table.
“You and Pappy might as well head for Hood, Craig,” Felter said. “There’s really no reason for you to sit in on this.”
“Was that an order, or is it open for discussion?” Lowell asked.
Felter visibly thought that over.
“You can stay, which means you won’t be able to see the III Corps CG today.”
“I don’t know,” Lowell said. “If I was the III Corps CG, and my aide told me there was a light colonel from the White House who wanted to see me at my earliest convenience, I don’t think I’d make him wait until tomorrow morning.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” Felter said. He raised his voice slightly. “Okay, everybody but Captain Portet, Lowell, Finton . . .”
He looked at Jack Portet for a moment, and then went on: “. . . and Lieutenant Portet, take your coffee into the living room.”
When they had filed out, Felter waited patiently until the waiters had finished clearing the table and had pushed the steam tables out of the room. Then he went to the door and closed it.
“Talking to Captain Portet about Mobutu was worth the effort getting him up here, Jim,” Felter began.
Finton nodded but said nothing.
“What do you know about Dr. Dannelly?” Felter asked.
“One of the CIA backgrounds said that he is close to Mobutu,” Finton said, “that’s all.”
“Captain Portet tells me that he is very close to Mobutu,” Felter said. “And that he is a devout member of the Church of Latter-Day Saints.”
“That wasn’t in any of the CIA backgrounds,” Finton said.
“Captain Portet also tells me that without the approval of Dr. Dannelly, it is unlikely that Mobutu will change his mind about helping us to get around Kasavubu’s refusal to let us operate over there.”
“The backgrounds said that Captain Portet was very close to Mobutu,” Finton said, but it was a question.
“Jacques Portet needs to be involved with our operations, and Mobutu needs to approve of that, too.”
“The backgrounds also said that Lieutenant Portet is on a first-name basis with Mobutu,” Finton said, another question phrased as a statement.
“Dr. Dannelly is not one of Jacques’s admirers,” Felter said.
“Why is that?” Finton asked.
Felter cocked his head, then smiled.
“I was tempted to sugarcoat the situation by saying he disapproved of Jacques’s sowing of wild oats,” Felter said. “But it’s worse than that.”
“Specifically?”
“You tell him, Jacques,” Felter said.
“I was in the Hotel Leopold in Kolwezi with a lady who was not my wife. Dannelly told me I was a disgrace, and I told him to go fuck himself,” Jack said.
“I don’t like to pry into your personal affairs, Lieutenant. . . .” Finton said.
“Ask him anything you want,” Felter said.
“Was alcohol involved?” Finton asked.
Jack nodded.
“And was the lady someone else’s wife?”
Jack nodded again.
“I thought it had to be something like that,” Finton said. “The Bible teaches us, ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged,’ and we try to follow that teaching. Our church teaches us that a man’s sins are between him and God. In this case, I would say that Dr. Dannelly believed not saying something to you, to try to turn you from your wicked ways, would be a sin of omission—‘we have not done those things we ought to have done’—and tried to counsel you.”
“Jacques has turned from his wicked ways,” Felter said. “How do we convince Dr. Dannelly of that?”
Jack thought: That’s the first time I have ever heard anyone say “wicked ways” in absolute sincerity, in a conversation. And they both did it. And I’ll be damned if Felter didn’t mean it just as sincerely as this Mormon bishop.
“Have you, Lieutenant?” Finton asked. “Have you turned from your wicked ways?”
Jack saw from his father’s raised left eyebrow that he was amused by the exchange.
Jack thought: That’s three times. And if I blow this answer, I’m really going to fuck things up.
“I hope so,” Jack said. “I think so. The day before I got married, I took Holy Communion with my fiancée. We’re Anglican. There is a prayer of confession, with the same line you quoted before—‘we have done those things which we ought not to have done, and we have not done those things we ought to have done’—and the next day, before a priest, I swore to God that I would be faithful to my wife. The line is ‘keep myself only unto her.’ I’m really going to try to keep that promise.”
Jack thought: The strange thing is, I meant that; I didn’t say it to get on the right side of this guy.
“I am happy for you, then,” Finton said. “If you keep that vow, it will give you joy in this world and the next.”
“I hope so,” Jack said.
“You might consider giving up alcohol,” Finton said.
“How about ‘take a little wine for your stomach’s sake and thine other infirmities’? Didn’t Christ say that?” Jack quipped.
Oh, shit, my mouth ran away with me again.
“Probably, if you’d limited yourself to a little wine, you wouldn’t
have found yourself locking horns with Dr. Dannelly,” Finton said, smiling.
“Okay,” Felter said. “How do we convince Dr. Dannelly that Jacques has turned from his wicked ways?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Colonel,” Finton said, “but what you’re really asking is if I will help you do that, as a bishop of the Church of Latter-Day Saints.”
“Yes, I am,” Felter said seriously.
“I will have to ask God’s guidance about that,” Finton said.
“Our cause here is noble, Jim,” Felter reasoned. “We’ve talked about that.”
“I will have to ask God’s guidance,” Finton repeated. “I will let you have my decision in the morning.”
“Thank you.”
“And now I’d better go back to the office,” Finton said, “and see how Mary Margaret is coming with your appointment to see the chief. Would you like me to send her here with the letter for Colonel Lowell?”
“Please,” Felter said.
Finton came to a position close to attention.
“With your permission, sir?”
“Granted. Thank you, Mr. Finton,” Felter said.
Finton left the room.
“Interesting man,” Captain Portet said. “And just for the record, Jacques, I’m glad you have turned from your wicked ways.”
“What are you going to do if he says no?” Lowell asked.
“Try to do it without him, obviously,” Felter said. “The next question is Father Lunsford. How do you think Mobutu would react to him?”
“Tough one,” Captain Portet said. “I don’t know how it would go, whether he would look at Lunsford as a fellow black soldier—he’s in love with his own parachutists—or whether he would look at him as a mercenary. And he’s death, literally, on them.”
“Jacques?” Felter asked.
“Father speaks pretty good Swahili; that would go well with Mobutu. And we know he’s impressed with what Father did before we jumped on Stanleyville.”
“I go with the fellow parachutist notion,” Lowell said. “All you parachute nuts recognize each other. It’s you against the rest of the sane world.”
“Okay,” Felter said. “Father goes. I think it’s important that Mobutu know him. Anybody else? Should we start infiltrating the team now?”
“I think you’d better wait to see how Mobutu reacts to this,” Jack said. “If he goes along, it will make things a lot easier.”
“You’re going to go ahead with this in any event?” Captain Portet asked.
“We have to,” Felter said.
XI
[ ONE ]
Room 914
The Hotel Washington
Washington, D.C.
0805 12 January 1965
“Good morning,” Colonel Sanford T. Felter said as he came through the door to the living room.
Major G. W. Lunsford, Captain John S. Oliver, and WOJG Enrico de la Santiago quickly stood up, and a moment later, so did Lieutenant Jacques Portet.
Felter impatiently waved them back into the seats. He was wearing the same mussed suit he had worn the day before. The others were in their shirtsleeves.
Lieutenant Geoffrey Craig was on the telephone.
“We’re ordering breakfast, Colonel,” he said. “What would you like?”
“Toast and tea, please,” Felter said. “My wife made breakfast at home.”
Felter turned to Captain Portet and smiled.
“I think you may have been a good—or should I say ‘sobering’? —influence on these hoodlums, JP,” he said. “I see few of the usual signs of debauchery on their smiling faces.”
“We went to the movies,” JP said. “Topkapi. With Peter Ustinov. Pretty good.”
“About a jewel robbery,” Lunsford furnished. “And then we came back here and, with enormous patience, Captain Portet let me grill him about the Congo.”
“I asked you to call me JP, Father,” Captain Portet said.
“You’re like the colonel, Captain, one of those people people like me have trouble calling by anything but their rank.”
“You mean I’m stuffy?”
“No, I mean you’re one of those people—like the colonel— people like me have trouble calling by anything but their rank. It was intended as a compliment.”
“I will buy a bigger hat,” Captain Portet said. “Call me JP, Father.”
“Yes, sir,” Washington said.
“Learn anything interesting?” Felter asked.
“He understands their thinking, sir,” Lunsford said. “I wish my guys had been here.”
The door opened and CWO Finton came in.
“Good morning, sir,” he said to Felter, then nodded at the others and added, “Gentlemen.”
“Breakfast is on the way, Jim,” Felter said. “And I heard Lieutenant Craig tell them to send an extra order of steak and eggs.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Lieutenant, I haven’t had any breakfast.” He paused and looked at Felter. “Sir, if you think I would be useful in the Congo, I am prepared to go.”
"Thank God,” Felter said, and then heard what he had said. “I know you know I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
"I like to think I know you very well, Colonel,” Finton said. “I took no offense.”
“Lieutenant Portet just made the point that if we can get Mobutu’s cooperation, things will be a lot easier for us. To infiltrate the team, for one thing.”
“There’s already a problem there,” Finton said. “An immediate problem. Mary Margaret tells me the Congolese Embassy is being difficult about issuing visas.”
“Did she say why?” Felter asked.
“She suspects it is an expression of unhappiness with our ambassador, sir.”
“Slip the Congolese Consular officer a hundred bucks,” Jack said. “That usually speeds things up miraculously.”
“How many visas do you need?” Captain Portet asked.
Felter looked around the room and counted with his finger. “Five,” he said. “You and Jacques, Father, Jim, and me. I don’t want to enter the Congo on an accredited to U.S. Embassy basis unless I have to.”
“Jack and I have Congolese passports,” Captain Portet said. “I think I can get visas for you and Father and Mr. Finton. When do you have to have them?”
“As soon as possible,” Felter said.
“Well, can I suggest that as soon as we finish breakfast, we go over there? To the Congolese Embassy?”
[ TWO ]
Chancellery of the Embassy of the Republic of the Congo
Washington, D.C.
0945 12 January 1965
The receptionist of the embassy was a tall, stunning Negro woman in her late twenties.
“Good morning, my darling,” Captain Jean-Phillipe Portet greeted her in Swahili, smiling broadly. “Would you be so kind as to inform the ambassador that Captain Portet of Air Congo would like a moment of his time?”
It was evident even before she opened her mouth that the receptionist didn’t understand a word he had said, but she made it official:
“Excuse me?”
“My father, my beauty,” Jack said in French, “wishes to see the ambassador. Be a good girl and tell him we’re here, won’t you?”
It was equally evident that the receptionist had only a distant acquaintance with the French language.
Captain Portet laid a business card on her counter. It identified him as the Chief Pilot of Air Congo, 473 Boulevard de Antwerp, Léopoldville.
The receptionist studied it.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and got up from her desk. She turned and added, a bit triumphantly, "S’il vous plâit.”
“Merci, mademoiselle,” Captain Portet said.
A young black man in a suit came into the reception area a minute later.
“How may I help you?” he asked in English.
“You’re not the ambassador,” Captain Portet said, not very pleasantly, in Swahili. “I wish to see the ambassador, and I am getting tired o
f waiting.”
Father Lunsford, having figured out what was going on, chimed in.
“You are dealing with the chief pilot of Air Congo here, my good friend,” he said.
“Chief,” the young man said in Swahili, “I will inform his excellency that you are here.”
The ambassador, a squat, very black man in his fifties, appeared two minutes later. He smiled broadly at Captain Portet, then came around the counter with his arms spread wide.
“My dear friend!” he said in Swahili. “How good it is to see you!”
He kissed both of Captain Portet’s cheeks. He turned to Jack. “And the fruit of the lion’s loins!”
He kissed Jack.
“Chief, you are looking well,” Father said in Swahili.
The ambassador kissed Father.
He looked at Colonel Felter and CWO Finton and smiled, but did not kiss either one of them.
“What may I do for you?”
“I need a small favor,” Captain Portet said. “I need to send a message to a mutual friend of ours, and, to be discreet, I do not wish to send it through commercial channels. I thought you might be able to help me.”
He handed him a sheet of paper:
His Excellency,
Lt. Gen Joseph Désiré Mobutu
Chief of Staff, the Congolese Army
Léopoldville
My Dear Joseph:
I have the price for that investment you are considering. Jacques and I are on our way home. Can you fit dinner with us into your schedule as soon as possible?
With the warmest regards,
Jean-Philippe Portet.
The ambassador read it.
“I was hoping you could send this using your diplomatic code,” Captain Portet said in Swahili.
“It will be gone within the hour,” the ambassador said.
“I very much appreciate your kindness.”
“It is my pleasure. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Captain Portet said. “Except—I hate to trouble you with something unimportant, Chief.”
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