In Search of Enemies - A CIA Story - John Stockwell

Kinshasa
ing my French. Some time later one of the communicators called to
me.
"Hey, John!" he said, "You'd better get over here."
At the baggage claim counter it was pretty clear that things had
come unstuck; we were in danger of going public on the spot. A
customs officer had a firm grip on one of our boxes, tugging at the
tape. The other communicator was just as firmly holding the top of
the box down. They were glaring at each other. Three other customs
officers were hurrying up, looking aggressive.
Since the first days of independence Zairian customs officials have
struggled to assert their authority over arrogant white travelers,
especially those who insist on diplomatic privilege or other special
treatment. After independence, the airport was one of the first places
to be Africanized and the colonial whites, while contemptuous of the
blacks' ability to officiate, were anxious-airports were their sole link
with the security of their motherlands. Whites sneered and the blacks
responded with harassment and delays. In recent years the tension
had subsided. Now Zairian officials process most passengers with
little comment, but incidents still occur.
Monsieur Albert was standing several feet back, obviously intimidated.
The other passengers had long since cleared through the
area and left.
I stopped a polite yard short of the official and addressed him,
citing the privileges of my diplomatic passport. He was unimpressed
with protocol, and snapped an order in Lingala. Two guards
pounced on the boxes and disappeared into the restricted area. I
fallowed the customs official into his office, realizing that he was in
charge of the airport. At least, I insisted, he could grant me the
courtesy of a call to the embassy. St. Martin eventually came on the
line and wanted to talk to the customs officer. I listened in. St. Martin
was pulling out all the stops, threatening to call President Mobutu
himself. The customs official was still unimpressed. He hung up after
St. Martin told me to wait where I was.
I sat down and began to work on the customs officer and his
assistant. The customs chief ofNdjili Airport could be valuable when
IAFEA TURE personnel and equipment began pouring into Kinshasa.
His assistant was from my old province, the Kasai, and we both
spoke Tshiluba fluently. They began to thaw.
To the case officer intelligence is people, not information. Recruit-