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.”
“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.”