silence Felter while he waited to see if the call was for him.
“It’s the White House Signal Agency,” the President’s secretary announced. “For Colonel Felter. They have the Léopoldville secure satellite link open for him.”
“Tell them to reschedule—” Felter began.
“What’s that, Felter?” the President asked.
“Sir, I had a message from Major Lunsford saying that he had to talk to me,” Felter said. “So I asked the Signal Agency to—”
“Meaning he’s in trouble in the Congo?” Johnson interrupted.
“I think meaning, Mr. President, that Major Lunsford has something he considers important to say to me. Maybe he needs a decision from me. But if there was trouble, sir—if someone has been injured, for example—I think that would have been in his message.”
“Huh,” the President snorted.
“I’ll reschedule the link, sir,” Felter said.
“No,” the President said. He looked at his secretary. “We can put that on the speakerphone, right?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
The President looked at Felter.
“Do not, do not, tell him where you are, or who’s also here. I don’t want him worried about saying the wrong thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
The President pointed to a second telephone on a coffee table, and pointed at the couch beside it. “You sit there, Felter, and talk at the telephone; you don’t have to pick it up, just push the speaker button.”
“Yes, sir.”
He sat down, still in his rain-soaked raincoat, and pushed the speaker button.
“Felter,” he said.
“Sir, we have your secure satellite link to Léopoldville. You have eleven minutes, twenty seconds of sat time left.”
“Thank you,” Felter said. “Open it, please.”
He pushed a button on the chronograph on his wrist.
“You there, boss?” Lunsford’s voice said, having been sent into space and bounced back off a surveillance satellite, then relayed to two speakers mounted on the walls of the room in Camp David.
“How are you, Father? What’s on your mind?”
“I need some more stuff, some more money, and your permission to kill the company man, and I need it yesterday.”
The President looked at the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, which was frequently referred to informally as “the company.”
“Tell me about the company man,” Felter said.
“The sonofabitch thinks he’s Eisenhower,” Father said. “He sits on his fat ass in the embassy and draws arrows on maps.”
“That’s the problem?”
“The problem is, he’s making assets available only to projects of which he approves. That means he’s got jeeps and three-quarter -ton trucks in a fucking motor pool in Léopoldville, while we’re—including Colonel Supo—riding around in requisitioned trucks, or walking. But, far fucking worse, the sonofabitch has the B-26s, the T-28s, and the C-47s in his fat little fingers and he told me flat out there is no way he’s going to let us use them. And we need them, Colonel, if this thing is going to work.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Felter said, and looked at the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
“If I had my druthers, I’d rather have permission to stick a spear up his ass and feed his corpse to the crocodiles,” Father said.
“What else, Lunsford?”
“I need at least two more—four would be better—L-19s and two pilots for each.”
“I’ll speak with General Bellmon as soon as we’re off, and get back to you.”
“And twenty fixed-station transceivers, fifty backpack radios, and plenty of batteries for them.”
“That can be arranged,” Felter said. “What about the money?”
“Supo wants to buy information and dead Simbas with money, which in the bush means gold coins.”
“How much are you talking about?” Felter asked.
The President picked up a telephone and spoke softly into it.
“Twenty-five thousand right now, and more later,” Lunsford said.
“I think that can be arranged,” Felter said.
“This link will shut down in fifteen seconds for a higher priority, ” the White House Signal Agency operator announced. “You are rescheduled for fifteen minutes at 2210 Zulu.”
Felter looked at the President.
“The Signal Agency guy tells me that’s when the next satellite will be available,” the President said. “In about an hour and ten minutes. I think that should give Felter enough time to explain all of this to us.”
“Mr. President,” Felter said. “May I respectfully remind you, sir, that Major Lunsford, at your orders, was not aware that anyone but me was on this end?”
“He’s one mean sonofabitch when crossed, isn’t he?” the President said. “I’d really hate to have him threaten to stick a spear up my rear end.” He paused. “Brief us on what’s going on over there, Felter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You going to need a map?”
“I’d like to have one, sir.”
“Get him a map,” the President ordered. “And while that’s on the way, Felter, get