Jack got out of his seat, walked through the fuselage, opened the door, and lowered the step. Dr. Dannelly and Mr. Hakino got out and ran across the tarmac to the terminal building.
Jack was soaked by the rain before he found the tie-down ropes on the ground under an inch of water, and by the time they were finished, there was no point in running to the terminal building. They were as rain-soaked as it was possible to get.
Jack pushed open the door to the passenger terminal, and had just enough time to see that the neon sign urging passengers to “Fumez Lucky Strike” was working when he was jabbed painfully in the stomach with the barrel of a Fabrique National 7-mm automatic rifle in the hands of a tall, dirty-looking Congolese soldier.
Jack looked over his shoulder worrying what Lunsford would do when similarly threatened.
A moment later, Lunsford came through the door and another Congolese soldier advanced on him with the barrel of his rifle.
“You touch me with that,” Father snapped in Swahili, “and I’ll take it away from you and stick it so far up your ass it’ll come out your nose.”
The soldier stopped.
“Identify yourself,” a voice said in French, to Jack.
Jack saw that the speaker was a Congolese lieutenant, in a surprisingly immaculate uniform.
“My name is Major George Washington Lunsford,” Lunsford replied in French, “and you will address any questions to me, preceded by a salute and the term ‘sir.’ ”
The lieutenant hesitated just a moment.
“Sir, this field is closed by order of the military commander—”
“Colonel Supo? Where is he?” Father interrupted. He turned to Mr. Hakino, switching to Swahili. “Chief, please tell this officer who you are.”
Thirty seconds later, everything was sweetness and light. The lieutenant expressed profound regret that he had no word of the coming of the distinguished assistant secretary and his party, in which case he would have made preparations for their arrival.
Colonel Supo was en route by road from Costersmanville, he said, and expected within the hour, although, of course, with the rain there was no way of telling how long he might be delayed.
“We will require quarters, of course, and food,” Lunsford said, not very pleasantly. “What is available?”
“The officers are billeted in the Immoquateur—it is an apartment building—”
“I know what it is,” Lunsford snapped. “Is it habitable?”
“Yes, of course,” the lieutenant said, as if the question surprised him.
Jack thought: That probably means the roof is still in place.
“Take us there,” Lunsford ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the Lieutenant said.
There was a Buick station wagon outside the terminal. Jack wondered if had been taken from the stocks of the Buick dealer who had once done business in Stanleyville, or whether it was one of the cars that had been left at the airfield with the keys in the ignition as the Belgians had fled—or tried to flee and failed— as the Simbas approached. Or whether it had been taken from some Belgian’s garage.
The lieutenant got behind the wheel, with the two soldiers crowded beside him. The others got in the back.
Three hundred yards from the terminal building, Jack saw that the Sabena Airlines guest house now housed Congolese soldiers; there were a dozen of them sprawled in lawn chairs on the verandah.
There wasn’t any visible activity the rest of the way to the Immoquateur. There were still neat cottages lining the streets; here and there were cottages that had been set on fire and allowed to burn. There were abandoned automobiles all over, some of them looking as if they had just been parked, others with their windows and everything else breakable shattered with bullet holes or simply heavy objects, and some burned-out hulks.
He was surprised when they approached the Immoquateur that there were lights on all over the twelve-story building. The lieutenant pulled under the portico where there had once been a white-jacketed porter to open the doors. Now there were half a dozen Congolese soldiers, all armed with automatic rifles, two standing, the others sitting on the sidewalk.
He remembered then that the Immoquateur had emergency diesel generators in the basement. Obviously, someone had gotten them running.
The soldiers stood up when they saw the lieutenant get out of the Buick, but it was not as if someone had called “Attention” at the sight of an officer. And only one of them saluted the lieutenant.
They entered the lobby. Some of the leather furniture was still there, fewer pillows on the seats, and only the chrome frame remained of what had