The paratroop lieutenant examined the invitation, returned it, saluted, and motioned for the driver to proceed.
Three minutes later, an identical black Chevrolet, also bearing Corps Diplomatique insignia, rolled up. This one contained a black man and a black woman. The paratroop lieutenant held out his hand to stop the car, and the driver rolled down the window and protested that he was driving a U.S. Embassy car carrying two American diplomats.
A major of Congolese paratroops in crisply starched camouflage fatigues stepped out from behind one of the gateposts.
“The lady is known to me, Lieutenant,” he said in Swahili. “The man I never saw before. Check him carefully.”
“Yes, my major,” the lieutenant said, and did so.
Two minutes later—which seemed longer—it was apparent to the lieutenant that the man’s papers were in order. He reported this to the major.
“Let them pass, then,” the major said.
The car began to move.
As it passed the gatepost, the black lady ordered, rather imperatively, the driver to stop. The Chevrolet jerked to a stop. The lady rolled the window down.
“Well, look who got himself a pair of shoes,” she said, and then, before he could reply, ordered the driver to drive on.
There were three houseboys in immaculate, stiffly starched jackets, black trousers, and no shoes, inside the door of the Portet home.
“Good evening, sir,” Nimbi said, in French, to Howard W. O’-Connor and his guest. “If you will be good enough to follow Ali, cocktails are being served by the pool.”
Ali smiled at the two Americans and signaled to them that he would lead them to the pool.
O’Connor saw that a bar had been set up at the pool, that beyond the pool were two tennis courts, and beyond the tennis courts, the area was ringed by Congolese paratroops, one every fifteen yards, keeping the fence under surveillance.
A strikingly beautiful young woman greeted them as they reached the pool.
“You must be Mr. O’Connor,” she said.
“Yes, I am, and this is Mr. O’Hara.”
“I’m Marjorie Portet,” she said. “Welcome to my home . . . actually, my father- and mother-in-law’s home. And welcome to the Congo, too, I suppose.”
“Thank you very much,” O’Connor said. “We’re delighted to be here. Is there a Mr. Lowell here?”
“There’s a Colonel Lowell here,” Marjorie said. “Actually, tonight is his idea. He’s over there with General Mobutu and Colonel Supo.”
She inclined her head to indicate the bar.
O’Connor saw a tall, handsome white man in a white dinner jacket, the lapel of which sagged under the weight of an impressive array of miniature medals. There was an enormous medal of some sort hanging around his neck from a purple sash.
With him were two other white men in dinner jackets, and two Congolese officers, one in what in the U.S. Army would be called a Class A uniform, and the other in starched camouflage fatigues. The latter O’Connor recognized from his photos as Lieutenant General Joseph Désiré Mobutu, Minister for Defense and Chief of Staff of the Armée National Congolaise.
“Why don’t you come with me?” Marjorie said. “Everybody’s here but the people from Dar es Salaam, I think. I’ll introduce you.”
“Thank you very much,” O’Connor said.
They started toward the group at the bar.
At the opposite end of the pool, there was another small group of people. Two white men in suits not unlike those of O’Connor and O’Hara, and two more in white dinner jackets were sitting at a table with a blond young woman. There was an infant on the table, being fed a banana by an enormous black woman.
The two men in the dark business suits got to their feet when they saw O’Connor and O’Hara, and intercepted them before they got to the bar.
“Good evening, sir,” one of them said respectfully to O’Con-nor.
“Hello, Charley,” O’Connor said to the CIA station chief, Léopoldville. He nodded at his deputy.
He desperately wanted to ask him what was going on, but with Madame Portet with them, that was obviously out of the question.
“We’re about to meet General Mobutu,” O’Connor said. “Have you met him?”
“Tonight,” Charley said. “For the first time.”
O’Connor resumed his walk toward Mobutu.
Craig Lowell smiled at O’Connor when he saw him coming.
A smile, O’Connor decided, that is less an offer of friendship than one of amusement, and amusement at the expense of Howard W. O’Connor. I came here to do business, not attend a pool party.
“And this, my general,” Lowell said in French, and gesturing with his martini glass at O’Connor, “is the distinguished Howard W. O’Connor, Deputy Director of our