"Bonjour, mon chef," he said, smiling. "Jacques." he said, smiling. "Jacques."

"Bonjour, capitain," Jacques replied. "Marcel." Jacques replied. "Marcel."

"I think I'll take it, Henri," Captain Portet announced. "I want to see how well Jacques can get us out of here."

He motioned for Jack to get in the right seat.

Captain Ratisse didn't like that much, but Jean-Phillipe Portet was the chief pilot and there wasn't much he could do about it. And Ratisse knew that the chief pilot's son was on the Air Congo Reserve Pilot's roster, rated as a first officer in the 707, and frequently flew in the right seat of one of Air Congo's 707 cargo planes when a first officer called in sick, or everyone on the roster had flown his hours for that month.

Jack had not been especially surprised when his father had come into the hotel dining room for breakfast wearing his Air Congo captain's uniform. He usually wore it when he traveled aboard Air Congo aircraft. He was, after all, the chief pilot, and as such almost invariably sat in the jump seat during takeoff and landing. He had more than once told Jack that "it makes the passengers nervous if they see some guy in a sports coat coming out of the cockpit."

But Jack had been surprised when they got to Schipol and his father had taken him into the briefing room for the weather and the weight and balance procedures, and had motioned for him to follow when they had walked around the huge aircraft while Ratisse and Defarre and the flight engineer, Paul Dupose, another Belgian, had done the preflight examination.

But Captain Portet rarely took over from the pilot, and this was the first time he had ever ordered Jack into the right seat of a passenger-carrying 707, although he had often flown as his father's copilot in cargo versions of the aircraft.

But Jack knew his father didn't like questions, and he strapped himself in, looked at the flight documents for a moment, and then reached for the checklist.

Jack got the 707 off the ground without any trouble, although it took a little longer than he expected it would, and to cruising altitude and across the Netherlands, Belgium, and half of France before his father indicated to the captain, who was riding the jump seat, that he should resume command of the airplane and unstrapped himself. The captain had just about finished adjusting his seat when Jack became aware that the first officer was standing behind him, waiting for him to get out of the copilot's seat.

"Thank you, Captain," Jack said.

"My pleasure, Jack. Anytime," the captain replied.

He did not sound very sincere.

The first-class compartment had six rows of seats, four to a row, twenty-four in all. They were all full. Except for Felter- who was asleep-and Finton-who was reading a book-all the faces were black.

Captain Portet led Jack past their empty seats, to the galley that separated the first-class section from the tourist section, and helped himself to two cans of Coca-Cola from the refrigerator. He handed one to Jack, then tapped his can against Jack's.

"I hope you enjoyed that, Jacques," he said.

"What was that all about?" Jack asked.

"I'm going to land it," his father said. "Which, with a little bit of luck, will bring to a suitable conclusion my career as chief pilot of Air Congo, and yours as one of Air Congo's loyal legion of reserve pilots."

"You're quitting?" Jack asked.

Captain Portet nodded.

" 'With a little bit of luck'?" Jack quoted.

"Kasavubu's not going to like it," Captain Portet said.

He motioned for Jack to follow him, stepped into the aisle, and pushed aside the curtain to the tourist section.

There were seats for 130 passengers. Only a quarter of them were occupied. Half were white, and half black.

"Those are the paying passengers," Captain Portet said. "You can't fly a 707 from Schipol to Leopoldville on what you get paid for thirty-five, forty tourist-class tickets."

"The cargo bay is full," Jack said. "It took me a long time to get off; it felt like we were pretty close to max gross weight."

"You didn't know know we were pretty close to max gross weight?" Captain Portet challenged. "Why did you think I took you with me to flight planning?" we were pretty close to max gross weight?" Captain Portet challenged. "Why did you think I took you with me to flight planning?"

"I didn't think I would be taking it off," Jack said, a little lamely. "And you and Henri didn't seem concerned."

"Jesus Christ, Jacques," his father said. "I've taught you better than that. If you're flying, you get the necessary information yourself."

The trouble with this ass-chewing, Jack thought, Jack thought, is that the old man is absolutely right. is that the old man is absolutely right.

There followed a long pause.

"We were close to max gross weight, and the cargo bay is full," Captain Portet said finally. "The problem is that the cargo is being paid for with government vouchers. And so are the tickets of the passengers in first class, with the exception of Felter and Finton. The other first-class passengers are all Congolese bureaucrats of one kind or another who go to Brussels or Paris or London for consultation every other month, sometimes more often. One day of consultation, and three days to recuperate from that exhausting labor."

"I don't think I follow you," Jack said.

"Right after you got drafted, we got a notice from the Secretary of State for Finance: 'Temporarily, until the end of the current emergency, payment of government passenger and cargo vouchers will be delayed.' "

"Air Simba, too?" Jack asked.

"Air Simba first," his father said. "When that happened, I thought either Kasavubu or Mobutu was putting pressure on me to sell part of it. Now I'm convinced it's Mobutu."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Sell him all of it," Captain Portet said.

"Will we get paid?"

"I would be very surprised if we got half what it's worth, but if I can get that in cash . . ."

"Start a one-airplane airline all over again in the States?" Jack asked. "Will there be enough for that?"

"There might be," Captain Portet said. "Let me tell you what's happened. . . ."

"And if the CIA deal falls through?" Jack asked when he had finished.

"Then I guess I start looking for a couple of old DC-4s in which I can fly freight around the Caribbean," Captain Portet said. "I'm putting all my chips on what Felter said."

"What?"

"That they're looking for someone just like me," Captain Portet said.

"Did you tell Hanni?"

"This just happened. I haven't had the opportunity. So don't say anything to her before I do."

Jack nodded.

"And with me in the goddamned army, I won't be of much help, will I?"

"I think I'm just as annoyed with your friends and neighbors as you are," Captain Portet said.

The letter Jack had received from the U.S. government just over a year before had told him "your friends and neighbors have selected you for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States."

He had said then what he said now: "Friends, my ass!"

Captain Portet laughed.

"On the other hand, no draft notice, no Fort Rucker, no Marjorie, " he said.

"Is that that goddamned silver lining people are always talking about?"

"That's what it looks like, doesn't it?" his father said.

"You could always go back to Sabena," Jack said. "Couldn't you?"

Jean-Phillipe Portet had been a captain in Sabena, the Belgian national airline, before he had been offered the position of chief pilot of Air Congo, in which Sabena was a major investor. At the time, he had been offered the opportunity to return to Sabena if things didn't work out.

"I don't think that would work out," Captain Portet said flatly, and Jack understood that his father had decided that option either was no longer valid, or that he didn't want to do it.

He smiled at his son.

"If I hadn't decided to land this thing in Leopoldville," he said, "I would now have a very stiff drink."

And once my poppa has made up his mind to do something, he does it. And he's apparently made up his mind to shoot his roll on this CIA deal.

"Well, since I'm not flying," Jack said, and then saw something on his father's face. "Do you want me in the right seat when we get to Leopoldville?" he asked.

"That's up to you, Jacques."

They looked at each other.

"Hand me another Coke, Pop, will you, please?" Jack asked.

[ SIX ].

Leopoldville, Republic of the Congo 2305 14 January 1965 Captain Portet greased the 707 in, with a long, low, right-by-the -book approach, with the wheels hitting just past the stripes at the end of the runway, followed by a gentle deceleration in the landing roll.

He almost always greases it in, Jack thought as they turned off the runway and began to taxi to the terminal. Jack thought as they turned off the runway and began to taxi to the terminal. He's that kind of a pilot. He's that kind of a pilot.

His finesse reminded Jack-painfully-of his carelessness in not checking for himself the weight and balance.

When he'd finished shutting it down, Captain Portet signed the logbook and then handed it to Jack for his signature.

They left the aircraft through the passenger compartment rather than down the ladder that had been wheeled up to the cockpit door. Jack wondered about that, but decided it was because they had boarded the airplane as passengers, not crew.

It was hot on the tarmac; it always was. Captain Portet stopped to light a cigar inside the terminal, but Jack suspected the purpose was more in seeing what happened when Colonel Felter and Father Lunsford and Mr. Finton passed through Immigration and Customs than in satisfying a craving for nicotine.

The three passed through Immigration and Customs without making a ripple, probably because, Jack thought, his father had told them to make a little present-really a little present; about two dollars' worth of Dutch guilders-to each of the Customs officers.

But when Jack and his father had gone through the AIR CREW line and had their passports stamped, however, they were nowhere in sight in the terminal.

"Look around outside," Captain Portet ordered. "I'll check in here."

Outside the terminal, Noki, the "head boy" of the Portet household, who somehow always knew when either one of them was aboard an Air Simba or Air Congo aircraft, was waiting for them with the air-conditioning running in their Ford station wagon.

And then Jack saw Felter and Finton talking to someone in a darkened doorway just outside the terminal doors.

He started to go to them, but changed his mind and went looking for his father. If there was some sort of problem, Captain Portet could deal with it better than he could.

He found his father in the men's room. The smell of that was familiar, too.

When the two of them walked up to Felter, Lunsford, Finton, and the other man, Jack recognized him. He was the military attache of the U.S. Embassy.

"You know Colonel Jacobs, right?" Felter asked.

Captain Portet and Jack shook Colonel Jacobs's hand.

"Colonel Jacobs tells me that he saw Dr. Dannelly riding through town in Mobutu's motorcade, and that as far as he knows, he's staying with him in the chief of staff's villa," Felter said. "So that's good news."

Jack noticed that Felter was now carrying a leather briefcase he had not had with him on the airplane. After a moment, he decided that it probably contained messages for him from Washington, sent through the embassy.

Confirmation came, he thought, when Felter thanked Jacobs for coming to the field and told him he would be in touch, then indicated he was ready to go.

They got in the Ford and drove out to the house. It took them a little over half an hour. There was an Army roadblock at every major intersection, where Congolese soldiers armed with Fabrique National 7-mm automatic rifles examined their documents intently until Noki gave them a little present.

The house, too, looked like it always did.

In what Jack thought of as better times, his father had bought three hectares (about 5.5 acres) of land overlooking the Stanley Basin of the Congo River, built his house on the most desirable hectare, and then tried to sell off the rest to other Europeans as home sites.

That hadn't worked out. Europeans, after independence, had wanted to get out of the Congo, not move in. The entire property was now surrounded by a barbed-wire-topped Cyclone fence three meters tall. There was a floodlight mounted on every other pole.

Dense shrubbery now hid the fence, which had been designed to keep people from looking in, but worked equally well to keep people from looking out.

Noki sounded the horn, and one of the barefooted security guards who endlessly circled the fence after dark, armed with shotguns and machetes, trotted up and unlocked the gate and opened it.

There was a large stack of messages for Captain Portet, but none was an acknowledgment-more important, an invitation to dinner-from Joseph Desire Mobutu.

And neither was there an answer when Mr. Finton tried to call the number he had for Dr. Dannelly, which seemed to confirm that he was staying with Mobutu in the Chief of Staff's official villa.

"Why don't we get a good night's sleep and see what happens in the morning?" Captain Portet suggested.

Felter, Lunsford, and Finton were put into the guest room-actually, a three-room suite-and Jack went to his room-also a three-room suite-and was surprised that everything seemed to be as he had left it.

He wondered about that, since he had been gone almost exactly a year, and his parents and sister since November 27-the day after the jump on Stanleyville-but then realized that Noki and the others who ran the house found nothing unusual about their absence.