Special Ops

by W. E. B Griffin

  The three passed through Immigration and Customs without making a ripple, probably because, Jack thought, his father had told them to make a little present—really a little present; about two dollars’ worth of Dutch guilders—to each of the Customs officers.

  But when Jack and his father had gone through the AIR CREW line and had their passports stamped, however, they were nowhere in sight in the terminal.

  “Look around outside,” Captain Portet ordered. “I’ll check in here.”

  Outside the terminal, Noki, the “head boy” of the Portet household, who somehow always knew when either one of them was aboard an Air Simba or Air Congo aircraft, was waiting for them with the air-conditioning running in their Ford station wagon.

  And then Jack saw Felter and Finton talking to someone in a darkened doorway just outside the terminal doors.

  He started to go to them, but changed his mind and went looking for his father. If there was some sort of problem, Captain Portet could deal with it better than he could.

  He found his father in the men’s room. The smell of that was familiar, too.

  When the two of them walked up to Felter, Lunsford, Finton, and the other man, Jack recognized him. He was the military attaché of the U.S. Embassy.

  “You know Colonel Jacobs, right?” Felter asked.

  Captain Portet and Jack shook Colonel Jacobs’s hand.

  “Colonel Jacobs tells me that he saw Dr. Dannelly riding through town in Mobutu’s motorcade, and that as far as he knows, he’s staying with him in the chief of staff’s villa,” Felter said. “So that’s good news.”

  Jack noticed that Felter was now carrying a leather briefcase he had not had with him on the airplane. After a moment, he decided that it probably contained messages for him from Washington, sent through the embassy.

  Confirmation came, he thought, when Felter thanked Jacobs for coming to the field and told him he would be in touch, then indicated he was ready to go.

  They got in the Ford and drove out to the house. It took them a little over half an hour. There was an Army roadblock at every major intersection, where Congolese soldiers armed with Fabrique National 7-mm automatic rifles examined their documents intently until Noki gave them a little present.

  The house, too, looked like it always did.

  In what Jack thought of as better times, his father had bought three hectares (about 5.5 acres) of land overlooking the Stanley Basin of the Congo River, built his house on the most desirable hectare, and then tried to sell off the rest to other Europeans as home sites.

  That hadn’t worked out. Europeans, after independence, had wanted to get out of the Congo, not move in. The entire property was now surrounded by a barbed-wire-topped Cyclone fence three meters tall. There was a floodlight mounted on every other pole.

  Dense shrubbery now hid the fence, which had been designed to keep people from looking in, but worked equally well to keep people from looking out.

  Noki sounded the horn, and one of the barefooted security guards who endlessly circled the fence after dark, armed with shotguns and machetes, trotted up and unlocked the gate and opened it.

  There was a large stack of messages for Captain Portet, but none was an acknowledgment—more important, an invitation to dinner—from Joseph Désiré Mobutu.

  And neither was there an answer when Mr. Finton tried to call the number he had for Dr. Dannelly, which seemed to confirm that he was staying with Mobutu in the Chief of Staff’s official villa.

  “Why don’t we get a good night’s sleep and see what happens in the morning?” Captain Portet suggested.

  Felter, Lunsford, and Finton were put into the guest room—actually, a three-room suite—and Jack went to his room—also a three-room suite—and was surprised that everything seemed to be as he had left it.

  He wondered about that, since he had been gone almost exactly a year, and his parents and sister since November 27—the day after the jump on Stanleyville—but then realized that Noki and the others who ran the house found nothing unusual about their absence.

  He had, after all, left the house to go to the Free University in Belgium every year for months at a time for four years, and before he had been drafted his mother and sister had often been gone for months on long trips to Europe.

  But before he went to sleep, he wondered what Nimbi, the houseboy responsible for his room, had thought when he’d unpacked his luggage and found his U.S. Army tropical worsted officer’s uniform and parachutist’s jump boots.

  [ SEVEN ]

  404 Avenue Leopold

  Léopoldville, Republic of the Congo

  1235 16 January 1965

  When, at breakfast—at half past ten—there had been no response to the message his father had sent General Mobutu from Washington, Captain Portet said that could mean any number of things, or nothing, but the best thing for him to do was go to his office at Air Congo and see what he could find out. Jack offered to go with him, but his father said it would be best if he stayed at the house, in case Mobutu called.

  When Mr. Finton tried the telephone number he had for Dr. Dannelly, there was again no answer. Captain Portet told Noki to drive him into town in Hanni’s Ford to see if he could make contact.

  Colonel Felter had announced that he had some messages to write—confirming again, as far as Jack was concerned, that the briefcase he had seen at the airport had contained “traffic” for him from Washington—and went to his room.

  With nothing else to do, Jack and Father had played—before it got too brutally hot—not quite a full set of tennis, and then, stripping down on the run to their tennis shorts, had dived into the pool. When they climbed out, Nimbi had placed a beer-and-ice-filled cooler, and a copy of L’Avenir, the major newspaper, by one of the poolside tables.

  There wasn’t much in L’Avenir but rather effusive reports of the many accomplishments of President Joseph Kasavubu.

  “There’s not one fucking word in here about what’s going on in the boonies,” Father said, in mingled wonderment and disgust, as he tossed his part of the newspaper on the tiles.

  “This is the Congo, Father. If you ignore a problem, maybe it will go away.”

  “Well, somebody should tell your pal Mobutu that what’s going on in Stanleyville is going to get worse, not better. Ignoring it is not a viable option.”

  “Mobutu knows,” Jack said. “Kasavubu is the problem. And we may not get a chance to tell Mobutu anything. My father really expected that there would be an invitation to dinner waiting for us.”

  “You think he’s stiffing us?”

  “This is the Congo,” Jack said. “You never know.”

  Father reached into the cooler and tossed Jack a beer, then took one for himself.

  A few minutes later, just as he realized his beer bottle was empty, Jack heard the sirens, but paid little attention to them. For one thing, sirens in Léopoldville didn’t mean what they had before Independence. Then the use of sirens had been limited to the Force Publique, the local police, the fire department, and ambulances.

  Father Lunsford did.

  “What the hell is that?” he asked.

  “Probably some Congolese general, or a second deputy assistant secretary of state for something or other, going home for lunch, or to his mistress’s house,” Jack said. “The larger your motorcade, the more sirens and flashing lights you have, the more important you are.”

  And the other standard symbol of power is the elegance of the mistress, most often a Belgian, sometimes a Frenchwoman, but almost always a pale-skinned blonde. I wanted to add that, but didn’t. Because it would make me sound like a racist?

  Fuck it. Father knows better than that.

  “The other status symbol is a white mistress,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Usually Belgian, but sometimes French. The blonder, the better. ”

  “Uh,” Father said. Jack waited for him to go on, but that was all Father said.

  From where they were sitting, the road
s that circled the property couldn’t be seen, so there was no telling in which direction the motorcade was going.

  He idly noticed that the sound of the sirens had died and decided that whoever was sounding them had arrived at his house— or his mistress’s house—for lunch. That made him wonder what Mrs. Marjorie Portet was doing at this hour—it was almost half past six in Fayetteville; she was probably making supper; or else she had gone to Fort Rucker, where it was half past five and she was helping her mother prepare supper.

  That thought led to another, of Mrs. Marjorie Portet making breakfast for him in Fayetteville, attired in one of his shirts— only—which costume he found incredibly erotic. After a minute or so of this, he decided that what he was doing was torturing himself, and reached for another beer.

  “Heads up!” Father said, softly but with great intensity.

  Jack looked up from the ice-and-beer-filled cooler.

  Four large Congolese paratroopers, in immaculate, heavily starched camouflage pattern fatigues, holding Fabrique National 7-mm automatic rifles, were trotting down the lawn from the house. They took up defensive positions—looking outward, toward the fence.

  Jack twisted in his chair. There were two more paratroopers on the patio by the house, and another one walking across the lawn, smiling broadly. This one was armed with a Browning pistol in a web holster, and his collar tabs bore the insignia of a lieutenant general of the Congolese Army. A lanky white man in a linen suit walked beside him.

  Jack got out of the chair, holding a beer bottle in his hand.

  “Jesus Christ, Joseph,” he blurted in Swahili. “You scared hell out of me.”

  “Jacques, my old friend!” Mobutu said, holding his arms wide.

  They embraced, and kissed, in the European manner. Mobutu was liberally doused with cologne.

  “You know my friend Dr. Dannelly, of course?” Mobutu asked, and then switched to French. “Whose Swahili, while good, is not as easy for him as French.”

  “Yes, of course,” Jack said in French.

  And I have just fucked up again with Dannelly. I blasphemed, with a bottle of beer in my hand.

  “It’s good to see you, Doctor.”

  “How are you, Portet?” Dannelly said, giving Jack his hand. His grip was firm, but anything but cordial.

  Fuck it.

  “This is my friend Major George Washington Lunsford,” Jack said.

  Mobutu and Dannelly looked at Father, but neither offered his hand, smiled, or said anything.

  “Would you like a beer, Joseph, or something stronger?”

  “I would like something stronger, but it’s early in the day,” Mobutu said, and walked to the cooler and helped himself to a beer.

  Jack glanced at the house. Nimbi was standing there, looking terrified.

  “Can I offer you a Coke, Doctor? Or perhaps orange juice?”

  Jack got a dirty look from Father.

  What the hell is that for? Oh, shit! Finton told you, you damned fool, that Mormons don’t drink anything with caffeine in it. Like Coke.

  Where the hell is my father?

  “Orange juice would be nice,” Dannelly said.

  Jack ordered a pitcher of orange juice in Swahili.

  “And you will stay for lunch, of course,” Jack said, switching back to French. “My father will be here any minute.”

  “That’s very kind,” Mobutu said.

  Jack waved them into the chairs by the table.

  “Dr. Dannelly hoped to see a friend of yours, a Mr. Finton?”

  “He went into town, Doctor, to see if he could find you,” Jack said. “He should be here any minute, too.”

  Mobutu took a healthy swig from the neck of the beer bottle. “So how do you like being a soldier?” Mobutu asked.

  “Except when people are shooting at me, I like it,” Jack said.

  Mobutu laughed delightedly.

  “But the most important thing that’s happened to me since we last saw one another, Joseph, is that I have married.”

  “You’re not old enough to be married,” Mobutu said.

  “That’s what our parents thought,” Jack said.

  Mobutu laughed again, but then his smile suddenly vanished.

  Jack followed his gaze.

  Mr. Finton, who was wearing a suit, was on the patio by the house. One of Mobutu’s paratroopers had his FN rifle leveled at his chest to make the point that he was to go no farther.

  “And that is?” Mobutu asked rather coldly.

  “That’s Mr. Finton, Joseph,” Jack said.

  Mobutu called out, in Swahili, orders to let Finton pass.

  “I would like to speak to him privately, Joseph,” Dr. Dannelly said.

  Dannelly got up from the table and walked across the lawn toward the patio.

  “Tell Nimbi to take you to my father’s study, Dr. Dannelly,” Jack called after him.

  Dannelly nodded.

  Mobutu watched until Dannelly and Finton had shaken hands and gone inside the house. Then he took another pull at his beer and turned to Lunsford.

  “Did I understand Jacques to say that you are an American officer? ” Mobutu asked in French.

  “Yes, sir,” Father said.

  “You speak pretty good French for an American,” Mobutu said.

  “I like to think so, General,” Father said.

  “How is that?” Mobutu asked.

  “Well, the Army sent me to our language school at the Presidio in California,” Father said. “And then to postgraduate study in Vietnam.”

  Mobutu thought that over for a moment, then smiled. “Major—Jacques did say you were a major, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m a very junior major.”

  “Major, why do I suspect that you did more in the former French Indochina than study the French language?”

  “Because you are a parachutist, sir, and airborne officers are known to be highly intelligent and very astute.”

  Mobutu laughed.

  “You wouldn’t, by chance, be a parachutist yourself?” Mobutu asked.

  “I have that distinct honor, sir,” Father said.

  Mobutu laughed again.

  They’re really getting along, Jack thought. Bringing Father along was a very good idea.

  “Languages are very important,” Mobutu said. “It’s a pity your ambassador does not speak it well enough to understand our president when he speaks it,” Mobutu said.

  Oh, shit, here it comes!

  “Sir?” Father asked.

  “President Kasavubu hoped to make it quite plain to him that he did not want any American soldiers—even a distinguished officer, a fellow parachutist officer, such as yourself—in the Congo,” Mobutu said. “I can only presume you are here unofficially, as guests of my old friends the Portets, in which case, of course, you are more than welcome.”

  He turned to Jacques.

  “I’m afraid the major and your friend Finton have made a long trip in vain, Jacques,” he said. “Dr. Dannelly is speaking to him only because there was a telephone call from someone in his church, in the United States, asking him to. Dr. Dannelly suspects that your friend is going to ask him to ask me to ask the President to change his mind. I have no intention of doing so, because I know he has no intention of doing so. And I think his decision was the correct one.”

  “Then you’re making a mistake,” Jack said.

  “Don’t strain our friendship, my young friend,” Mobutu said coldly.

  “I would not be a friend if I let you make a big mistake,” Jack said.

  “If Kasavubu is to lead this country, he cannot afford to be perceived as a man who has to have white assistance to handle every minor disturbance that occurs.”

  “General, you’re not suggesting that Stanleyville was a ‘minor disturbance’?” Father said.

  “Perhaps, Major, ‘minor’ was a poor choice of words.”

  “Stanleyville was a disaster,” Father said flatly. “And if the Belgians hadn’t jumped on it when they di
d, the Simbas would now be marching on Léopoldville. And when Che Guevara starts operating in that area, training soldiers, arming them with Soviet weaponry, what happened before will look like a Boy Scout rally in comparison.”

  For a moment Jack thought Mobutu was either going to lash out at Father, remind him that he was speaking to the chief of staff of the Congolese Army, or simply get up and storm off.

  But he surprised Jack. He took a moment to almost visibly restrain his temper, then smiled at Father.

  “Jacques, you know, jumped with the Belgians,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, I know,” Father said.

  “And is Jacques, then, the source of your information about what happened in Stanleyville?” Mobutu asked. “With all respect to my young friend, he was only there for a few hours.”

  “I was there for five months, General,” Father said in Swahili. “I know what went on in Stanleyville.”

  Both the statement and the Swahili surprised Mobutu.

  “You’re the man Colonel Supo told me about,” Mobutu said after a moment, in Swahili.

  Lunsford looked confused.

  “He was the Congolese officer with Colonel Van de Waele at Kamina,” Jack furnished.

  “At his recommendation,” Mobutu said, as if to himself, “I have decorated you for your extraordinary valor. What you did was incredible.”

  Father didn’t reply.

  “With that in mind, Joseph,” Jack said. “Don’t you think you could at least hear what Major Lunsford has to say?”

  Mobutu took a long moment to consider that, but finally nodded his assent.

  “Before I get into what we know about Che Guevara, and his plans to screw up your country, General,” Father began, “let me try to put your mind at ease about one thing. Nobody will be able to accuse you of having to ask white men to help you out here. Everybody we want to send over here is black.”

  “Interesting,” Mobutu said. “But let me perhaps save us both some time. What you have to do, Major, is convince me of two things. First that this Cuban is actually going to come here—”