And if there's time, we'll see if we can't arrange for a bus tour of Stanleyville for those who would like to see it. They call it the Paris of the Congo." He then repeated more or less the identical message in English.

When Hanni Portet, in the first-class compartment of UTA 43, saw the look of disappointment on Ursula Craig's face, she smiled at her and leaned over and whispered so as not to wake Jiffy.

"We keep an apartment in the Immoquateur," she whispered.

"We'll stay there. It's nice, and it overlooks the Congo. These things happen." Then she got a stewardess's attention.

"I am Madame Portet," she said. "My husband is Captain Portet, Chief Pilot of Air Congo."

"Yes, Madame," the stewardess replied. "How may I help you ?"

"When the Captain is in touch with Stanleyville," Hanni Portet said, "would you ask him to get in touch with Air Congo and tell them I'm aboard and to have a car for us at the field? So we can go into town and the Immoquateur?"

"Certainly, Madame," the stewardess said.

When UTA 43 touched down at Stanleyville at 4:45, the stewardess, following the Captain's orders, saw to it that Madame Portet and party were the first to debark. She went down the stairs with them and saw that they were safely aboard a Chevrolet carryall. Then she went back aboard the aircraft.

As the first passengers started to walk down the stairway, the UTA Stanleyville Station Chief came running out of the terminal and pushed his way quickly and somewhat rudely up the stairs.

He jerked open the door to the flight deck.

"How much fuel do you have aboard?"

"An hour forty-five, maybe two hours," the First Officer replied.

"That'll get you to Kampala," he said. visibly relieved.

"You mean now?"

"The Simbas are two hours away."

"Who the hell are the Simbas?" the First Officer asked.

"You really think they're going to come here?" the Captain asked. "You sound a little hysterical, frankly."

"They are going to come here," the UFA Station Chief said.

"The only question is when."

"I'd like to know a little more," the Captain said.

"I order you to prepare this airplane for immediate flight!" the UTA Station Chief said excitedly.

"You don't order me anywhere," the Captain, said coldly.

"Captain," the Station Chief said, "you are responsible for the lives of your passengers." The UTA Captain, whose face showed he did not like being reminded of his obligations by a. groundling, thought that over for a moment.

"Set us up for Kampala, Louis," he said to the First Officer; Then he pushed the stewardess call button, and when one came in the cockpit told her to reload all the passengers.

Hanni and Jeanine Portet, Ursula and Jiffy Craig, and Mary Magdalene had been in the Air Simba apartment in the Immoquateur only long enough to change Jiffy's diapers and for Hanni to start a pot of coffee when the air trembled from the roar of a DC-8 passing over.

Hanni knew the difference between the roar of engines taking off and landing. That had to be UTA airplane. There had been no other jet on the field.

But there was no sense in worrying Jeanine and Ursula. There was an explanation, certainly, and the worst thing that could hap:.

pen was that they would have to catch something else, probably East African Airways, for the rest of the trip to Leopoldville.

(Three) The United States Consulate General Stanleyville, Democratic Republic of the Congo 0845 Hours 4 August 1964 Chief Warrant Officer Joseph F. Manley, his white shirt and trousers sweat soaked and stained from the effort of moving the steel drums from their storage area to the side of the swimming pool, rolled the last of seven in place and then looked to the Consul General for orders.

"Go ahead, Joe," the Consul General said.

Manley reached into the nearest steel drum and came up with several sheets of bond typewriter paper. On the top and bottom of each sheet was stamped SECRET in red letters. He twisted the sheets of paper together to form a torch and then took a Zippo from his pocket and ignited it.

He held it to the top of one of the drums.

For a moment nothing happened. And then all at once there was a brilliant white glare and a sound like rushing wind. A sheet of white flame erupted from the barrel, rising a dozen feet in the air.

Some kind of phosphorus, Manley decided.

He expected the flame to die down immediately. It did not.

"Shit!" he said aloud, aware that the vulgarity offended the Consul General's sense of verbal decorum for cryptographic officers.

Manley decided another system of ignition would be required.

He went to the second steel drum and took a stapled-together report from it.

He ripped one page from it and, without twisting or crumpling it, ignited one end. He dropped it into the second steel drum and then did the same thing to the third. He was just igniting the next sheet of paper when the second drum went off, and then almost immediately the third.

By the time all of them were ablaze, it was so hot that he had to walk around the other side of the swimming pool in order to get back to the Consul General.

"I think you better stay until you're sure everything has burned," the Consul General said.

"Yes, Sir," Mr. Manley said.

"When you've done that, radio Leopoldville that it's been accomplished. "

"Yes, Sir."

( Four) The White House Washington, D.C.4 August 1964 Two high-priority messages came over the high-speed radioteletype printers in the Situation Room within minutes of each other.

URGENT FROM US EMBASSY LEOPOLDVILLE.

DEM REP