“I asked for a team and was told no,” Foster said. “That may change now, with him here.”
“I’ll loan you a team,” Lunsford said.
“How would you get it into the country?” she asked.
“It’s at the airport now, three ASA guys and two Special Forces. They’re all black, and the Special Forces guys speak Swahili, one of them well. That one also speaks Spanish. All they’d need from you is transport to the area, and a supply of food.”
“And you want us to relay the intercepts?” she asked.
“Oh, no, Katharine,” Father said. “You don’t mind if I call you Katharine, do you? You have that same, utterly charming Katharine Hepburn, between-clenched-teeth accent she had in The Philadelphia Story.”
“Oh, aren’t you clever!” she replied. “And, yes, I do mind you calling me Katharine. The question was, you want us to relay the intercepts? If so, it’s out of the question. The ambassador wouldn’t allow that.”
“What I had in mind, Kate,” Lunsford said, “was our guys up-loading to a satellite, and then we’d forward them to you, for your information.”
“And our own, as opposed to embassy, links,” Lunsford said.
“I’d have to get clearance from my superiors,” Foster said.
“This can’t have anything to do with Langley,” Father said. “I don’t have authority to operate, black or otherwise, in Tanzania. If you ask Langley—”
“Well, I can’t do it otherwise,” Foster said.
“And I don’t want anybody else to know, either, like that CIA jackass in Léopoldville.”
“Then it’s out of the question, I’m afraid,” Foster said.
“Aw, hell,” Lunsford said. “I was really hoping that you just might be in that small group of station chiefs—like Jack Stephens in Buenos Aires and Bill Colby in Saigon—who are more interested in getting the job done than in getting their tickets punched. I really should have known better.”
“Didn’t your Mommy ever tell you,” she asked, “that you get more by being nice than by being an arrogant sonofabitch?”
“I don’t have time to be nice,” Lunsford said.
“Well, you can’t put an intercept team in here,” Foster said.
“I’m going to put an intercept team in here with or without your assistance,” Lunsford said. “Get that straight.”
“How are you going to stop him?” she asked. “And what are you going to do when he does, Jim? Turn them in? Tell Langley? ”
“You sound as if you think this is a good idea,” Foster replied.
She turned to Lunsford.
“If they are discovered, it will have to be understood, we never heard of them, or you.”
“Naturally,” Lunsford said. “And it will have to be understood that if I hear Langley’s been told—and I would—or the Tanzanians, I will personally turn him into a soprano with a dull machete, and think of something equally interesting to do to you.”
“My God, Cecilia!” Foster protested.
“Oh, what a pretty name!” Lunsford said. “Wouldn’t you agree that’s a pretty name for such a pretty girl, Lieutenant Portet?”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said. “I certainly would, sir.”
“So do we have a deal, Cecilia?” Father asked.
“That, of course, would be up to Mr. Foster,” she said.
“Oh, Cecilia,” Lunsford said. “Just when I was starting to really like you, you start playing silly games again.”
“Meaning what?” she asked.
“Meaning you’re really the station chief, and, frankly, my dear, you’re not too good about keeping that the dark secret it’s supposed to be.”
“You really are a sonofabitch, aren’t you?” she snapped, but there was a tone of admiration in her voice.
She walked to Foster’s desk, picked up a notepad, wrote something on it, and handed it to Lunsford.
“That’s down by the waterfront,” she said. “They’ll be expecting your team anytime after three. With a little luck, we can move them. How much equipment do they have?”
“It will all fit inside a panel truck,” Lunsford said.
“We can probably move them to Morogoro tonight,” she said. “By then you should be almost back in the Congo.”
“I guess dinner’s out of the question, then, Cecilia?”
“For tonight, George, it is,” she said. “But maybe sometime, when you’re wearing shoes, we could talk about that again.”
XX
[ ONE ]
Near Kigali, Rwanda
1845 6 April 1965
“Kigali, Air Simba Seven-two-seven understands I am number one to land on One-eight,” Jack said into the microphone, then turned to Major Darrell Smythe, who was in the copilot’s seat of the Boeing. “Put the gear down, please, Major, sir, and then go get in the back and try to look like an African.”
Jack hadn’t wanted to press one of the Air Simba pilots into making the flight to Dar es Salaam without