In Search of Enemies - A CIA Story - John Stockwell

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IN SEARCH OF E NEMI ES
car he apologized for the problem at the airport, adding, "The bastards
are bloody difficult."
"Why didn't you get the proper customs clearances," I asked,
"and meet me at the airport?"
"St. Martin wanted to take care of it himself-show 'em he knows
the president, I guess."
Had St. Martin set me up? It was a machiavellian thought, but
such events in defense of CIA "territory" were common enough.
St. Martin's huge villa, twenty minutes from the embassy, had
been used by Kinshasa station chiefs dating back to Larry Devlin,
when he ran the Congo program in the early sixties. I had slept in
its guest rooms several times over the years.
The foyer, where Jimmy set my bag, was as large as the living
room of most American homes. Beyond was a vast space with three
separate clusters of furniture, rather like a hotel lobby. That was the
living room. A wall of french windows opened onto the $40,000
swimming pool, which another COS had added at government expense
in 1968. The right wing of the house included four or five
bedrooms, each with its own bath. On the left were the dining room,
kitchen, pantry, and servants' quarters. Altogether there were six
bathrooms, including the one in the additional servants' quarters in
the yard. The villa was cooled by a dozen air conditioners, mounted
in the walls.
The rent and utility bills for all this, I had heard, came to $40,000
a year, initially paid by the embassy, reimbursed by the CIA. In the
CIA view, such luxurious accomodations were necessary to give the
station chief sufficient presence in the comm unity; I had often wondered
if the U.S. taxpayer would agree. Did the American public
visualize its cold warriors doing their work in the back alleys of the
world?
St. Martin hurried out to greet me. He was of medium height,
slender, with greying hair. His eyes sparkled, but the stresses of case
officering and the attendant cocktails, cigarettes, and long hours
were reflected in the lines and shadows of his face.
Jerking his head back toward the living room he indicated that a
meeting was in progress. I could see an African sitting on one of the
sofas. St. Martin led me to the door of the hall and pointed to a
bedroom. Would I please make myself at home and come out when
I was refreshed.