“No, sir. I don’t, not at this time. I think we should get this material to the States as quickly as we can, but I don’t think we should rush to the UN with it.”
“You going to tell me why not?”
“Well, for one thing, even with the proof, they could—probably would—continue to deny it, sir. And if what we’re after is to get the Tanganyikan—and Congo Brazzaville—governments to stop permitting the Cubans to use their ports to move men and matériel, I think the way to do that is without a confrontation. They’re both liable to get their backs up—that would earn them, they might think, the admiration of other African nations for standing up to us—and they know we already disapprove, so they have nothing to lose. Right now, our interdiction efforts are apparently successful, and the insurgents’ ‘liberation’ campaign is getting nowhere. And they know that, too. It very well might occur to them that since there is no apparent good—from their perspective—resulting from their cooperation with the Cubans, it would be in their interest to shut off the routes, which would (a) allow them to claim they’re doing everything to claim to help the cause of peace, and (b) remove the threat that we are capable of going before the UN and proving to the world that they were lying.”
The President looked at him, dubiously thoughtful.
“Mr. President, I rather agree with Colonel Felter,” the Secretary said.
“Now, that really makes me suspicious,” Johnson said.
They all waited for him to go on.
“How long would it take to get our ambassador to Tanganyika here?” he asked.
“Twenty-four, thirty-six hours, sir,” the Secretary said.
“Why don’t we get him here and see what he has to say?” Johnson said.
“Mr. President, if I may make a suggestion?” the Director said.
“Why not?”
“Miss Taylor, until very recently, was my station chief in Dar es Salaam. She probably has a very good idea of current Tanganyikan thinking?”
“You’re not suggesting, I hope, that your station chief is more tuned in than my ambassador?” the Secretary said.
“I was thinking, simply, that she has the knowledge, and that she could bring the diaries, photographs, et cetera, with her,” the Director said.
“Mr. President,” Felter said. “At about this time, our supply plane is approaching Stanleyville. It will return to the States as soon as it’s serviced.”
“And could bring this lady? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send her a satellite message to her to be on that plane,” the President ordered. “With the ID cards, the diaries, and the photographs. ”
“Yes, sir,” the Director said.
“And tell her to bring Major Lunsford with her,” the President said. “I want his assessment of the situation.”
[ TWO ]
Old Original Bookbinder’s Restaurant
South Broad Street
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
1745 5 July 1965
Of those invited, H. Wilson Lunsford, M.D., and Mrs. Lunsford arrived first. They were accompanied by Charlene Lunsford Miller, Ph.D., Stanley Grottstein Professor of Sociology at Swarthmore College, who had not been invited and whom Father Lunsford really wished hadn’t invited herself.
He rose as his father walked to the table in the upstairs private room, shook his hand, hugged him, and then embraced his mother, a slight, trim, light-skinned, gray-haired woman.
“What’s going on, George?” his father asked.
Miss Cecilia Taylor looked a bit uncomfortable under the frankly curious gaze of Dr. and Mrs. Lunsford and the even more fascinated gaze of the woman who had to be the sister George had described as being politically located somewhere to the left of Vladimir Ilich Lenin.
“There’s someone I wanted you to meet,” Father said.
“Aren’t you going to say ‘hello’ to your sister, George?” Mrs. Lunsford asked.
“Hi, Charley,” Father said. “What’s new at Joe Stalin U?”
“Behave, George, for God’s sake!” Cecilia ordered in Swahili.
Dr. Miller did not reply, but she looked at Cecilia with even greater curiosity.
“Mother, Dad,” Father said. “This is Cecilia Taylor.”
“I’m very happy to meet you, Miss Taylor,” Dr. Lunsford said sincerely.
“And so am I,” Mrs. Lunsford said. “I’m Esther Lunsford.”
“How do you do?” Dr. Miller said.
“In here, Daddy!” Cecilia said, as a couple walked past the open door of the private dining room.
“Where the hell is the champagne?” Major Lunsford inquired as L. Charles Taylor, a very tall, light-skinned man who looked like the successful attorney he was, came into the room followed by his wife, also tall, and a waiter carrying a champagne cooler in each arm.
“Hey, Wilson,” Mr. Taylor said. “How are you?”
Mrs. Taylor kissed Mrs. Lunsford on the cheek, and then Dr. Miller.
“Why am I not surprised?” Major Lunsford asked in Swahili.