In Search of Enemies - A CIA Story - John Stockwell

[102] IN SEARCH OF E N EMIE S
standing and confidence that would make us a team when we hit the
field.
Just before we boarded Pan Am 151 I had telephoned headquarters.
Things sometimes happen quickly in the inteUigence business. More
than once case officers have had their missions changed after their
seat belts were buckled. Paul Foster came on the line and we chatted
for a few minutes. When we hung up I stood reflecting on CIA
telephone security. We had mentioned the FNLA, Angola, and some
communications equipment that was being procured. Any intelligent
person eavesdropping on the conversation would know that I was on
my way to Kinshasa on an important mission relating to the war in
Angola.
We banked over the Congo River and the mountains, descending
to Ndjili Airport, twenty miles from Kinshasa. Landing heavily,
we taxied to the nondescript white terminal. A half-mile on
our left, were several rough-looking corrugated iron hangers, two
C-13os, a DC-4, a couple of C-47s, and several single-engine
planes- Mobutu's air force. Strewn about the grass between runways
was a graveyard of stripped airframes, relics of the CIA
Congo program of the 1960s.
It was just after 4:00 P.M. local time. Inside there would be the
usual forty-minute wait for our luggage, perhaps longer, considering
our sixteen boxes of radio equipment. My cable had made it clear we
were bringing in a large quantity of gear that could not be opened
by customs officials in a public air terminal. CIA procedure in such
cases called for the local station to process the papers in advance of
our arrival, getting help from the embassy administrative officer, and
for a case officer to meet us at the airport to insure that there were
no snags.
Someone was waving at us, a young man in a sports shirt, not an
American. He would be the embassy's administrative assistant, a
local, no doubt a displaced European whose primary responsibility
was to meet and guide all official American visitors through the
pitfalls of Zairian customs. He introduced himself as "Monsieur
Albert," took our passports and began processing us into the coun.
try.
No one from the station was in sight, a bad sign. While waiting
for Monsieur Albert to work his magic, I turned and walked to a
souvenir counter and began bargaining with the salesclerk, practic·