rather than of the worst things that can happen."

"That's foolish."

"Olenga and the Simbas are mad at the Americans," Hanni said, ignoring her. "They seem to be going out of the way not to offend the Belgians or any other Europeans. Because of my husband, I've gat a Belgian passport, and Jeanine is Belgian, and you still have your German passport. That's positive."

"But I came here on an American passport and there's no. Congolese visa an my German one. And Jiffy's an my American passport."

"I've hidden your American passport," Hanni said. "Just to be safe. Your German passport will be enough. If you are actually asked far it, the man who asks will probably be illiterate. If it is not an American passport, that will be good enough."

"Hanni!" Ursula said, sadly, disbelievingly.

"We have food, and we can buy more," Hanni said. "There was five thousand dollars in Swiss francs in the sofa here. Fuel money, in case we have to send an airplane somewhere where you needed cash far fuel." Seeing the look an Ursula's face, she decided to try humor.

"When the plane arrives tomorrow to take us home, I don't know what we'll do. with all the condensed milk. Mary Magdalene took me at my ward when I told her to buy all she could. We have eight cases. There's no shortage of bread or chickens. Beef may not be an the menu far long-"

"And if the plane doesn't came tomorrow?" Ursula interrupted, not amused. "Or the day after that? Or next month? Or never?"

"There will be a plane," Hanni said. "Jean-Philippe will probably be flying it."

"I hope it gets here before the Simbas run out of-Congolese to hack to death," Ursula said, "and start coming after the Europeans."

Hanni met her eyes. "So do I, Liebchen," she said finally.

"And I really think it will."

"Geoff must be going out of his mind."

"See, you're learning," Hanni chuckled.

"Huh ?"

"You're thinking positively," Hanni said. "You're feeling sorry far somebody else, not yourself."

"Ach, Gott!" Ursula said in exasperation. But she smiled, and that, Hanni decided, was a good thing.

(Two) Camp David, Maryland 8 August 1964 The world, was far mare interested in the Gulf of Tonkin Resolutan passed by the Congress the day before (the Washington Post had already called it a "blank check to the President to do Whatever he wanted in Indochina") than in the plight of a-handful of Americans in a remote city in the middle of Africa. Nor was the remote possibility of a small-scale American intervention in the Conga nearly as important as the immediate certainty of American intervention an a massive scale in Vietnam.

Consequently, when the President-having so far ignored what had happened in Stanleyville,- He led the meeting he was presiding over toward the question of public relations, foreign and domestic, vis-a-vis possible American actions in. Southeast Asia, Felter reasoned that his presence would be no longer required at the meeting. As quietly as he could, he Closed his briefcase and walked-toward the door.

"Where the hell are you going?" the President of the United States called out to. him sharply and unpleasantly: "Gaddamn it, Colonel, you can leave when I tell you you can. Who the hell do you think you are?"

Felter resumed his seat.

Felter's public humiliation pleased the Director of the United States Information Agency even mare than it pleased the Director of the CIA and other high-ranking officials in the roam. The Director of the USIA, a holdover from the Kennedy Administration, was a friend and confidant of the Attorney General.

Bobby Kennedy and he had once, agreed that since every great man had to be permitted one enormous fault in judgment, Colonel Sanford T. Felter had to be Jack Kennedy's. His choice of Lynden Baines Johnson as his vice president did not count, of course, since Johnson delivered Texas and a few other Southern states.

After President Kennedy's assassination, they had both been surprised when Felter was noticeably absent from the first Kennedy aides replaced. Johnson, for some odd reason, actually seemed to like him, even though he was in the habit of referring to Colonel Felter in terms that were insulting in several ways at once. When Johnson had learned that Felter's White House switchboard and Secret Service code name was "the Mouse," for example, he offered that he thought of him as "the Snip." And then, grinning with delight, he added that a snip was what fell to the floor after Jewish ritual circumcision.

But Johnson had kept Felter on, and it had quickly become apparent that he was treating Felter as Jack Kennedy had, with respect. This was bad enough. But worse, he shared confidences with him that he shared with no one else. No one knew what Felter was doing or where he would show up. Just that whatever he was doing was done for the President. And wherever he showed up, and whenever he asked for something, he was doing so with the authority of the President.

One of the theories advanced was that Johnson, who knew how his Attorney General and USIA Director loathed Felter, kept him on to remind them who was now the President. It might be a little premature, the Director of the USIA decided, to interpret the President's humiliation of Felter as the first sign he was growing tired of him. But it was a possibility, and the Director of the USIA was pleased.

"New I want to see Wheeler," the President said when he'd had enough of public relations. He aimed his finger at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, "and you, Earl," pointing at the Director of the USIA, "and you and you and you," indicating the Deputy Director of the CIA, the Secretary of State, and Colonel Sanford T. Felter. "The rest can go." The President of the United States wanted to know what was going on in Stanleyville and who was doing what about it. "The best information we have, Mr. President," the Deputy Director of the CIA said, "is that our people there are in no immediate physical danger-"

"What about the rescue mission?" the President asked impatiently, cutting him off.

"It was not feasible, Mr. President," Felter said.

"Mr. President," the Director of the USIA said, "I' m hearing this for the first time. What rescue mission?"

"Tell Earl, Felter," the President ordered.

"It was at one time contemplated attempting to evacuate consular personnel by helicopter, using assets already in the Congo." Felter said.

"You're talking about the use of American military personnel?" the Director of the USIA interrupted incredulously.

"Shut up, Earl, and listen," the President said. "When we're finished, if you have any questions you can ask them." He turned to Felter. "Why wasn't it feasible?"

"One, we could" not mount a force of sufficient strength to insure success," Felter said. "Two, even if we had" gotten lucky and managed to get the consular personnel out, we almost-certainly could not have gotten them all out. And three, I was. advised that Olenga was very likely to retaliate against all Europeans-not only against any Americans still there; after a rescue attempt."

"Advised by who?" Felter was obviously reluctant to answer the question.

"You mean he's still with them? And you're still in contact with him?"

"Yes, Sir," Felter said.

"May I ask who 'he' is?" the CIA Director asked.

"A Green Beret captain," the President said. "Apparently one hell of a man."

"It was my understanding," the Director of USIA said, "that whatever our options were in die Stanleyville situation, they did not include the use of United States military personnel."

"In other words," the President said to Felter, ignoring the Director, "nothing's going to happen right away?"

"Aside from what the CIA can do to help in the near term;" Felter began, "and a plan I'd like to ask your permission-"

"It was my understanding." the Director of the USIA said doggedly, "that the question of the use of U.S. military personnel was pretty well decided. That there would be none, in other words, unless there is-"

"That's all, Earl," the President interrupted him. "You can run along." There was an awkward silence as the Director of the USIA gathered his papers together, closed his attache case, and walked out of the room.

(Three) Kamina Airfield Katanga Province Democratic Republic of the Congo 22 August 1964 The Air Simba Curtiss Commando, under charter to the Ministry of Transportation of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, made a rather steep approach to the runway, pulled up, and then dove at it again. Just in time, the pilot pulled back on the stick. The Commando was now in straight and level flight twenty feet off the runway. The pilot chopped the throttles and the aircraft settled so smoothly onto the runway that only the sudden rumble of the wheels announced that it had returned to earth.

Karl-Heinz Wagner, wearing the camouflage pattern coveralls and the pips of a captain of the Armee Nationale Congolaise, sat on the floor of the cabin, his back braced against the rear bulkhead. While the Commando was still slowing on its landing roll, as soon as he could get to his feet he went to the door and with an enormous shove forced it open. Air rushed into the cabin, warm, very humid, but fresh.

Karl-Heinz stood by the door, taking deep breaths.

The Commando had neither passenger seats nor provisions for either cabin pressurization or passenger oxygen. It had been a bumpy ride from a small airfield near Johannesburg. The Commando had not been able to climb above the regular afternoon low-altitude thunderstorms and the turbulence they caused. A dozen of the forty men aboard had been airsick. And worse. The interior of the cabin smelled of vomit and feces. He himself had been very afraid that he was going to throw up. But he did think it behooved an officer, even an officer commanding scum of the earth like these, to avoid getting sick to his stomach.

And he was just a little annoyed with Lieutenant Colonel Michael Hoare, who almost immediately after takeoff went into the cockpit and closed the door after him.

When the Commando was finally moved into its parking spot, there was a strong temptation to just jump off onto the ground.

He could not do that, for two reasons: one, the cabin floor was too high off the ground to jump safely; and, two, an officer sees to his men before looking to his own personal comfort.

In English, and sharply, Captain Wagner ordered a sergeant to get the ladder in place. And then he ordered the Sergeant to debark first, to line the men up in the shade of the wing, and to keep them there. Then he stood in the door and watched, his face expressionless, as the troops debarked.

A jeep drove up to the plane. It was a civilian jeep, Wagner noticed, painted olive drab to give it a military appearance. But it had thickly padded seats and a f{)ld-down door in the back. He wondered if it would be otherwise identical to a military jeep; specifically whether the floor would -be strong enough to hold a .50 caliber machine-gun mount.

Hoare came bustling down the cabin. He was wearing the pips of a major. Although he had been promoted to lieutenant colonel, the proper insignia had not been available in South Africa.

Wagner's captaincy-his promotion from lieutenant-had been one of Lieutenant Colonel Hoare's first -Official acts.

"You're a good man to have- around, Karl-Heinz," Hoare had told him the night before when the list of people on the first airlift (including Wagner) was announced. "You're a natural soldier." Now Hoare spoke to him again. "Don't let them "scatter all over," he said. "I'll go find out what's going on."

"Yes, Sir," Wagner said, and then saluted when Hoare drove off in the jeep.

When the last of the mercenaries had gone down the ladder from the cabin, Wagner climbed down it himself. He looked at the men standing under the wing and wondered which of them had shit their pants. And what right now he was supposed to do about it.

Then he saw two men sitting on the ground, thumbing cartridges into magazines. He walked over to them.

"Anyone tell you to do that?" he asked levelly.

They looked up at him. Both seemed puzzled. One of them shook his head no.

"I am an officer," Karl-Heinz said. "When I or any other officer talks to you, you say, 'Yes, Sir' or 'No, Sir.' You don't shake your head." They didn't like that.

"I asked you a question," Karl-Heinz- said. "Did anyone tell you to load those magazines?" Obviously, to judge by the look on their faces, no one had.

And, just as obviously, they were deciding how to deal with the problem that had so pissed off the Captain.

Wagner was about to tell them to unload the magazines and not to charge them again until they were ordered to do so when one of the sergeants walked up behind one of them, put his boot in the center of his back, and shoved. The mercenary, a thin faced South African with bad teeth, was sent sprawling on his face and stomach.

"You miserable sodding shit," the Sergeant said, raising his booted foot to the back of the other one. "You get to your sodding feet when an officer talks to you!" The second mercenary scurried out of the way of the Sergeant's boot on all fours. The Sergeant ran after him, caught up with him, and applied his boot to his rear end. He went sprawling. Then he got to his feet and assumed what he believed to be the position of attention.

The first mercenary saw what the other had done, got to his feet, and stood to attention. He was now facing the runway. The second mercenary was ten feet away, facing the line of hangars.

The Sergeant went to the-first mercenary, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him into line with the first.

He put his hands on his hips and moved his face within inches of the first mercenary, then, spraying him with spittle, furiously announced, "The next sodding cartridge you load without being ordered, I will shove up your asshole!" Then he stepped neatly in front of the second mercenary and glowered at him.

Karl-Heinz decided he would have a word with the Sergeant about kicking people, but this was not the time or place for it.

"Sergeant," he said.

The Sergeant turned and stamped his foot in the British manner.

"Sir!"

"At the first opportunity, have those two men collect whatever soiled underwear there is and rinse it out."

"Sir!" Karl-Heinz turned and faced the others. "No one is to load any weapon without specific orders. I thought I had made that clear." And then he saw the jeep. It was an American jeep, and Lieutenant Geoffrey Craig, wearing a flight suit, was at the wheel.

Geoff got out of the jeep and walked toward Karl-Heinz.

There was neither a smile nor a sign of recognition on his face.

Geoff saluted.

"Captain, may I see you a moment, please?" Karl-Heinz returned the salute. "Carry on, Sergeant!"

"Sir!" He followed Geoff to the rear of the airplane.

"Ursula and the baby are in Stanleyville," Geoff said.

"Ach, du Lieber Gott!"

"So is Father Lunsford," Geoff said. "Father is now a captain in the Simbas."

"What about them?" Karl-Heinz asked, even as he realized that if there were bad news-worse news than that Ursula and the baby were in Stanleyville-he would have already been told.

"Father says they're all right," Gooff said. "The Simbas think they're Belgian, or at least not Americans."

"What the hell are they doing in Stanleyville?"

"Leopoldville was socked in," Geoff explained. "The UTA pilot decided to sit down in Stanleyville overnight. Hanni."

Madame Portet?" Karl-Heinz nodded.

"She wasn't going to spend the night in the Sabena guest house-"

"What's that?"

"Sort of a motel for stranded travelers," Geoff explained. "So she got off the airplane and went to the apartment Air Simba keeps downtown. The UTA pilot, the cocksucker, when he heard the Simbas were coming, took off without them."

"And nothing has been done to get them out?"

"You're it," Geoff said.

"That's all?"

"We wanted to go in with a couple of H-34s and the A-Teams, but they decided it was too risky."

"Who decided that?" Karl-Heinz asked, coldly angry.

"Felter made the call. But it was based on what Father Lunsford thought."

"I feel sick to my stomach," Karl-Heinz confessed.