“Nonsense. What are friends for? What can I help you with?”
“These gentlemen need visas,” Captain Portet said.
It took the ambassador about twenty seconds to decide that his orders from Léopoldville to subject all applications from Americans for visas to enter the Congo to very careful—and thus very lengthy—evaluation obviously did not apply to friends of a man who addressed General Mobutu by his Christian name.
“Of course,” the ambassador said. “It will take just a minute, if you’d be good enough to wait.”
[ THREE ]
Apartment B-14
Foster Garden Apartments
Fayetteville, North Carolina
1620 12 January 1965
Mrs. Marjorie Portet was torn between joy at seeing her husband come through the door of their home and fury that he hadn’t, as he had promised, telephoned her as soon as he knew what was going on.
Joy triumphed. She threw herself into his arms, and one thing led to another, and it was thirty minutes later before she raised the question about his unexpected appearance.
They were at the time on their new bed, and there had been proof that, due to an application of soap on various parts thereof, it no longer squealed in protest when subjected to vertical movements on the mattress.
“I thought you were going to be gone for five days,” she said. “I was thinking of going to see my folks.”
“You can go tomorrow,” Jack said helpfully. “Actually, it’s a pretty good idea. There’s not much for you to do around here, is there?”
“Where are you going to be tomorrow?” she asked.
“On my way to the Congo,” he said.
She didn’t trust herself to speak. He interpreted this as a silent request for additional information.
“We’re on the 8:20 Southern Airways flight to Atlanta; then the 12:10 Eastern flight to La Guardia—we’re going to meet my father there; he’s coming up from Miami. Then we take the 5:17 Pan American flight out of Kennedy to Amsterdam; and the 10:05 Air Congo flight to Léopoldville the next morning.”
“Why do I suspect ‘we’re,’ as in ‘we’re on the 8:20 Southern flight,’ doesn’t mean you and me?” Marjorie asked softly.
“Father and me, baby,” Jack said. He saw the look on her face. “Hey, I’m a soldier. I go where they send me.”
My God, Liza was right. I feel like screaming or weeping, or both.
“What are you going to do in the Congo?”
“Steal furniture, for one thing,” he said, chuckling. “Or keep it from being stolen.”
“What?” she asked incredulously.
“My father says we’ll get a truck and get what we can—the best stuff—out of the house, call it personal stuff, and take it to KLM Air Freight at the airport and at least try to get it out of the Congo. Some of it’s pretty nice, but I don’t know where the hell it would fit in here.”
“You’re not going over there to steal furniture,” Marjorie thought out loud.
“We’re going to see Mobutu, and see if we can get him to help,” Jack said.
“Your father, too?”
“Yeah. He was in Washington. He and Mobutu are pretty close.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Not long,” he said. “A couple of days in Léopoldville, and a couple of days in Stanleyville.”
“Stanleyville? You’re not going back to Stanleyville? In God’s name, why?”
“I want to introduce Father to people who can do us some good,” Jack said. “And if there’s anything left in the apartment, I’ll bring it back with me to Léopoldville and ship it out of the Congo.”
“For example?”
“Well, there’s a Browning shotgun there,” Jack replied. “I saw it when . . .” He paused, and then, obviously delighted with his wit, went on, “. . . I unexpectedly dropped in the last time. And my tennis racquets.”
“My God!” Marjorie said.
“Hey, it’s safe, baby, at least for the time being. Mike Hoare’s mercenaries ran the Simbas out. And, come to think of it, probably stole everything that wasn’t nailed down in the apartment.”
“You’ll be gone how long?”
“Two days to get there, five days there, two days to get back. I should be back on the twenty-second. We have to be back on the twenty-sixth.”
“You have to be back on the twenty-sixth?”
“Yeah, we’re going to Argentina on the twenty-eighth,” Jack said.
“Argentina? Isn’t that strange? I can’t remember ever hearing a word from you about Argentina.”
“A lot of this just happened in Washington, baby.”
He saw the look on her face.
“What?” he asked.
“What what?”
“What are you thinking?”
“How long are you going to be in Argentina?”
“About the same time, ten, twelve days,” Jack said. “But why do I suspect that’s not what you were thinking?”
“I was thinking I was going to miss you,” Marjorie said.
What I was thinking was that I’m going to go out of my mind in the apartment, wondering where the hell you are, and whether I’m ever going to see you again, or whether Red Hanrahan and the chaplain will show up at the door here with uncomfortable looks on their faces.
“Hey, it’s not as if I want to go,” he said. “They’re sending me.”
You’re not consciously lying, my darling, but that’s not true. You want to go. Maybe you can’t control it, but you want to go.
“I know, baby,” she said. “Sorry.”
She kissed him, and one thing led to another, and it was another thirty minutes before she got around to asking whether he was hungry, and did he want to eat in the apartment or go out.
[ FOUR ]
SECRET
FROM: CIA LANGLEY 12 JANUARY 1965 1805 GMT
TO: STATION CHIEF LÉOPOLDVILLE
SUBJECT: TRANSMISSION OF CIA MATERIAL
MR. SANFORD T. FELTER, COUNSELOR TO THE PRESIDENT, WILL BE IN THE REPUBLIC OF CONGO ON A PRESIDENTIAL MISSION, ETA 15 JAN 65.
CIA WILL TRANSMIT CERTAIN CIA CLASSIFIED MATERIAL TO HIM VIA CIA COMMUNICATIONS. ON RECEIPT YOU WILL DECRYPT SAID MATERIAL AND FURNISH ONE COPY ONLY TO US MIL ATTACHÉ WHO WILL PASS TO MR. FELTER.
SHOULD MR. FELTER INITIATE CONTACT WITH YOU, YOU ARE DIRECTED TO PROVIDE WHATEVER ASSISTANCE HE ASKS FOR, TO INCLUDE ACCESS TO CIA CLASSIFIED MATERIAL. UNDER NO REPEAT NO CIRCUMSTANCES WILL YOU INITIATE CONTACT WITH MR. FELTER. CIA WILL BE ADVISED IMMEDIATELY OF ANY CONTACT INITIATED BY MR. FELTER AND OF ASSISTANCE REQUESTED AND FURNISHED.
FOR THE DIRECTOR:
HOWARD W. O’CONNOR
ASSISTANT DIRECTOR FOR ADMINISTRATION
SECRET
SECRET
FROM SEC STATE WASH DC 12 JANUARY 1965 2110 GMT
TO AMBASSADOR LÉOPOLDVILLE (EYES ONLY)
COUNSELOR TO THE PRESIDENT SANFORD T. FELTER WILL SHORTLY TRAVEL TO LÉOPOLDVILLE AND POSSIBLY OTHER POINTS WITHIN THE REPUBLIC OF THE CONGO ON A MISSION ORDERED BY THE PRESIDENT. HE WILL BE ACCOMPANIED BY A PARTY OF THREE US ARMY OFFICERS. FELTER HAS PRESIDENTIALLY AUTHORIZED ACCESS TO DEPARTMENT OF STATE CLASSIFIED MATERIAL OF WHATEVER NATURE.
CONTACT BETWEEN MR. FELTER AND US EMBASSY WILL BE THROUGH US ARMY ATTACHÉ UNLESS INITIATED BY MR. FELTER. FYI FELTER IS COLONEL, GSC, USARMY. FELTER IS AUTHORIZED ACCESS TO USEMBASSY COMMUNICATIONS FACILITIES AND MILATTACHÉ WILL BE DIRECTED TO PROVIDE WHATEVER ASSISTANCE HE REQUIRES, WHICH SPECIFICALLY INCLUDES USE OF AIRCRAFT UNDER CONTROL OF MILATTACHÉ. MILATTACHÉ WILL ALSO SERVE AS CONTACT BETWEEN FELTER AND CIA STATION CHIEF. MILATTACHÉ WILL BE ADVISED OF FELTER’S ETA AND WILL MEET HIM AT LÉOPOLDVILLE AIRPORT.
SECSTATE WILL BE IMMEDIATELY INFORMED OF ANY CONTACT INITIATED BY FELTER, AND REASONS THEREFORE, AND ANY ACTIONS TAKEN BY US EMBASSY IN REGARD THERETO.
FOR THE SECRETARY OF STATE
RONALD I. SPIERS, ADMIN ASST TO SEC STATE
[ FIVE ]
Sch
ipol International Airport
Amsterdam, The Netherlands
1000 14 January 1965
Captain Jean-Phillipe Portet, chief pilot of Air Congo, boarded the Boeing 707 that was Air Congo’s Flight 2117, nonstop service to Léopoldville as a passenger, but after stowing his briefcase in the overhead compartment, walked toward the cockpit and motioned Jack to follow him.
The pilot, a Belgian, Captain Henri Ratisse, and the first officer, Marcel Defarre, a Frenchman, turned in their seats.
“Bonjour, mon chef,” he said, smiling. “Jacques.”
“Bonjour, capitain,” Jacques replied. “Marcel.”
“I think I’ll take it, Henri,” Captain Portet announced. “I want to see how well Jacques can get us out of here.”
He motioned for Jack to get in the right seat.
Captain Ratisse didn’t like that much, but Jean-Phillipe Portet was the chief pilot and there wasn’t much he could do about it. And Ratisse knew that the chief pilot’s son was on the Air Congo Reserve Pilot’s roster, rated as a first officer in the 707, and frequently flew in the right seat of one of Air Congo’s 707 cargo planes when a first officer called in sick, or everyone on the roster had flown his hours for that month.
Jack had not been especially surprised when his father had come into the hotel dining room for breakfast wearing his Air Congo captain’s uniform. He usually wore it when he traveled aboard Air Congo aircraft. He was, after all, the chief pilot, and as such almost invariably sat in the jump seat during takeoff and landing. He had more than once told Jack that “it makes the passengers nervous if they see some guy in a sports coat coming out of the cockpit.”
But Jack had been surprised when they got to Schipol and his father had taken him into the briefing room for the weather and the weight and balance procedures, and had motioned for him to follow when they had walked around the huge aircraft while Ratisse and Defarre and the flight engineer, Paul Dupose, another Belgian, had done the preflight examination.
But Captain Portet rarely took over from the pilot, and this was the first time he had ever ordered Jack into the right seat of a passenger-carrying 707, although he had often flown as his father’s copilot in cargo versions of the aircraft.
But Jack knew his father didn’t like questions, and he strapped himself in, looked at the flight documents for a moment, and then reached for the checklist.
Jack got the 707 off the ground without any trouble, although it took a little longer than he expected it would, and to cruising altitude and across the Netherlands, Belgium, and half of France before his father indicated to the captain, who was riding the jump seat, that he should resume command of the airplane and unstrapped himself. The captain had just about finished adjusting his seat when Jack became aware that the first officer was standing behind him, waiting for him to get out of the copilot’s seat.
“Thank you, Captain,” Jack said.
“My pleasure, Jack. Anytime,” the captain replied.
He did not sound very sincere.
The first-class compartment had six rows of seats, four to a row, twenty-four in all. They were all full. Except for Felter— who was asleep—and Finton—who was reading a book—all the faces were black.
Captain Portet led Jack past their empty seats, to the galley that separated the first-class section from the tourist section, and helped himself to two cans of Coca-Cola from the refrigerator. He handed one to Jack, then tapped his can against Jack’s.
“I hope you enjoyed that, Jacques,” he said.
“What was that all about?” Jack asked.
“I’m going to land it,” his father said. “Which, with a little bit of luck, will bring to a suitable conclusion my career as chief pilot of Air Congo, and yours as one of Air Congo’s loyal legion of reserve pilots.”
“You’re quitting?” Jack asked.
Captain Portet nodded.
“ ‘With a little bit of luck’?” Jack quoted.
“Kasavubu’s not going to like it,” Captain Portet said.
He motioned for Jack to follow him, stepped into the aisle, and pushed aside the curtain to the tourist section.
There were seats for 130 passengers. Only a quarter of them were occupied. Half were white, and half black.
“Those are the paying passengers,” Captain Portet said. “You can’t fly a 707 from Schipol to Léopoldville on what you get paid for thirty-five, forty tourist-class tickets.”
“The cargo bay is full,” Jack said. “It took me a long time to get off; it felt like we were pretty close to max gross weight.”
“You didn’t know we were pretty close to max gross weight?” Captain Portet challenged. “Why did you think I took you with me to flight planning?”
“I didn’t think I would be taking it off,” Jack said, a little lamely. “And you and Henri didn’t seem concerned.”
“Jesus Christ, Jacques,” his father said. “I’ve taught you better than that. If you’re flying, you get the necessary information yourself.”
The trouble with this ass-chewing, Jack thought, is that the old man is absolutely right.
There followed a long pause.
“We were close to max gross weight, and the cargo bay is full,” Captain Portet said finally. “The problem is that the cargo is being paid for with government vouchers. And so are the tickets of the passengers in first class, with the exception of Felter and Finton. The other first-class passengers are all Congolese bureaucrats of one kind or another who go to Brussels or Paris or London for consultation every other month, sometimes more often. One day of consultation, and three days to recuperate from that exhausting labor.”
“I don’t think I follow you,” Jack said.
“Right after you got drafted, we got a notice from the Secretary of State for Finance: ‘Temporarily, until the end of the current emergency, payment of government passenger and cargo vouchers will be delayed.’ ”
“Air Simba, too?” Jack asked.
“Air Simba first,” his father said. “When that happened, I thought either Kasavubu or Mobutu was putting pressure on me to sell part of it. Now I’m convinced it’s Mobutu.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Sell him all of it,” Captain Portet said.
“Will we get paid?”
“I would be very surprised if we got half what it’s worth, but if I can get that in cash . . .”
“Start a one-airplane airline all over again in the States?” Jack asked. “Will there be enough for that?”
“There might be,” Captain Portet said. “Let me tell you what’s happened. . . .”
“And if the CIA deal falls through?” Jack asked when he had finished.
“Then I guess I start looking for a couple of old DC-4s in which I can fly freight around the Caribbean,” Captain Portet said. “I’m putting all my chips on what Felter said.”
“What?”
“That they’re looking for someone just like me,” Captain Portet said.
“Did you tell Hanni?”
“This just happened. I haven’t had the opportunity. So don’t say anything to her before I do.”
Jack nodded.
“And with me in the goddamned army, I won’t be of much help, will I?”
“I think I’m just as annoyed with your friends and neighbors as you are,” Captain Portet said.
The letter Jack had received from the U.S. government just over a year before had told him “your friends and neighbors have selected you for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States.”
He had said then what he said now:
“Friends, my ass!”
Captain Portet laughed.
“On the other hand, no draft notice, no Fort Rucker, no Marjorie, ” he said.
“Is that that goddamned silver lining people are always talking about?”
“That’s what it looks like, doesn’t it?” his father said.
“You could always go back to Sabena,” Jack said. “Couldn’t you?”
Jean-Phillipe Portet had been a captain in Sabena, the Belgian national airline, before he had been offered the position of chief pilot of Air Congo, in which Sabena was a major investor. At the time, he had been offered the opportunity to return to Sabena if things didn’t work out.
“I don’t think that would work out,” Captain Portet said flatly, and Jack understood that his father had decided that option either was no longer valid, or that he didn’t want to do it.
He smiled at his son.
“If I hadn’t decided to land this thing in Léopoldville,” he said, “I would now have a very stiff drink.”
And once my poppa has made up his mind to do something, he does it. And he’s apparently made up his mind to shoot his roll on this CIA deal.
“Well, since I’m not flying,” Jack said, and then saw something on his father’s face. “Do you want me in the right seat when we get to Léopoldville?” he asked.
“That’s up to you, Jacques.”
They looked at each other.
“Hand me another Coke, Pop, will you, please?” Jack asked.
[ SIX ]
Léopoldville, Republic of the Congo
2305 14 January 1965
Captain Portet greased the 707 in, with a long, low, right-by-the -book approach, with the wheels hitting just past the stripes at the end of the runway, followed by a gentle deceleration in the landing roll.
He almost always greases it in, Jack thought as they turned off the runway and began to taxi to the terminal. He’s that kind of a pilot.
His finesse reminded Jack—painfully—of his carelessness in not checking for himself the weight and balance.
When he’d finished shutting it down, Captain Portet signed the logbook and then handed it to Jack for his signature.
They left the aircraft through the passenger compartment rather than down the ladder that had been wheeled up to the cockpit door. Jack wondered about that, but decided it was because they had boarded the airplane as passengers, not crew.
It was hot on the tarmac; it always was. Captain Portet stopped to light a cigar inside the terminal, but Jack suspected the purpose was more in seeing what happened when Colonel Felter and Father Lunsford and Mr. Finton passed through Immigration and Customs than in satisfying a craving for nicotine.
Special Ops Page 35
