Colonel Supo put his head out the window and ordered the driver of the Ferret to go to the Immoquateur, and after some hasty backing and turning around, the newly reassembled convoy set out for the Immoquateur.
When they rolled up to the portico of the Immoquateur, Sergeant Paul Wotto did not think the corporal of the guard reacted quickly enough to the appearance of Colonel Supo; did not think his belatedly rendered salute was crisp enough; and further, noted that his uniform was soiled. He expressed his displeasure by punching the corporal in the mouth, hard enough to knock him off his feet, and then trotted after his colonel.
Colonel Supo pretended not to see what had happened. Sometimes it was possible to inspire men. Sometimes you could speak with them. And sometimes it was necessary to do what Sergeant Wotto had done. He had learned that in the 23rd Company.
At the elevator, Colonel Supo motioned for Major Alain George Totse, his intelligence officer, and Sergeant Wotto to get on the elevator, and ordered the rest of his party and guards to wait for him.
On the tenth floor, when there was no response to Colonel Supo’s knock at the door, he motioned for Sergeant Wotto to enter the apartment.
Wotto drew his 9-mm Fabrique National pistol from its web holster and entered the apartment cautiously, obviously expecting trouble. He made his way carefully through the living room, peered into each of the three bedrooms, worked his way through the dining room to the kitchen, and ultimately to the open balcony at the rear of the apartment. The balcony overlooked the wharves and warehouses lining the Tshopo River, which flowed into the Congo four miles downstream.
There he found three black men and two white men. One of the black men was standing at an ironing board, pressing a pair of trousers. He was obviously not the Assistant Secretary of State of Defense for Provincial Affairs, but it was quite impossible to tell which of the other two black men was that dignitary, for all four men were wearing nothing but white boxer shorts and under-shirts. One of the white men was drinking a glass of water. The other three all held bottles of Simba beer in their hands.
“Put that goddamned gun away before I make you eat it,” Father Lunsford snarled in Swahili.
Obviously, Sergeant Wotto decided, the short muscular man was the Assistant Secretary of State for Defense for Provincial Affairs.
“Chief,” he announced as he hastily holstered his pistol, “Colonel Supo is here.”
“Where?” Lunsford asked.
"I will fetch him,” Sergeant Wotto announced, and fled from the balcony.
“They are in their underwear, my colonel,” Sergeant Wotto reported. “Drinking beer on the servants’ balcony.”
“Are they indeed?” Colonel Supo replied, and gestured for Wotto to lead the way.
Father Lunsford rose to his feet when Supo came onto the balcony, and a moment later Jack did. Major Totse and Sergeant Wotto stayed just inside the door to the kitchen.
Supo knew both Assistant Secretary of State for Defense Hakino and Dr. Dannelly, who was Joseph Désiré Mobutu’s good friend. He was relieved to see Dannelly. He knew the Air Simba apartment was really that of Captain Jean-Philippe Portet, who was another of Mobutu’s very few close white friends. It was possible, even likely, that Dannelly and Portet were friends, and Dannelly was in Portet’s apartment as his guest. Otherwise, the situation might be difficult.
Supo saluted Hakino.
“Chief,” he said in Swahili, and then turned to Dannelly. “It is good to see you again, Doctor.”
Supo turned to Lunsford and Jack and switched to French.
“I don’t believe I know these gentlemen,” he said, smiling.
“We have had the privilege of meeting the colonel before,” Lunsford replied in French. “Major George Washington Lunsford and Lieutenant Jacques Portet, U.S. Army, at your orders, sir.”
Supo’s smile vanished. He knew for a fact that President Kasavubu had been offered, and had bluntly refused, the offer of American troops.
“At Kamina, sir,” Lunsford went on, switching to Swahili. “Both yourself and Colonel Van de Waele at first thought I was a Simba prisoner, and Lieutenant Portet a Belgian para who had taken a bullet in the nose.”
Supo’s eyes widened as he looked between them and recognition came.
“Mon Dieu,” he said. “I would not have recognized either of you!”
“Mon Dieu,” Major Totse parroted in French, “it is him!”
“It is very good to see you again, sir,” Lunsford said.
“And you’re not Belgian?” Supo asked Jack.
“He’s Jean-Philippe Portet’s son,” Dr. Dannelly said.