In Search of Enemies - A CIA Story - John Stockwell

Kinshasa [111]
reports repeatedly described the activities of a submarine on the lake,
mercenary-piloted airplanes which flew from landing strips in the
hills of Burundi, and large supplies of rifles buried near Rumonge.
That all of these notions were ludicrous, entirely at odds with physical,
logistical, and political possibilities, did not deter CIA headquarters.
Africa Division blithely disseminated hundreds of these reports
to the intelligence community.
Over the years I learned that the operational standards I had
found in my first assignments, low as they were, were fairly typical
of most CIA stations.
Jetlag brought me awake the next morning just as light was coming
in through the window. I showered and dressed quickly, and
went outside. It was nearing 7:00 A.M. The sky was heavy with
clouds. Outside, away from the air conditioners, I could hear Kinshasa's
morning sounds: people calling out, a car, a truck, some
yellow and black weaverbirds quarreling in a palm over the back
wall. In the driveway a uniformed African, doubtless St. Martin's
chauffeur, was polishing a Mercedes 220. He grunted when I addressed
him, but didn't seem to speak any language I knew. I wondered
how St. Martin communicated with him. The Mercedes was
sleek and new.
Nearly all case officers in the field are authorized QP, or quasipersonal,
cars which are paid for by the agency. The justification is
that an automobile is as essential to a spy handler as it is to a field
salesman stateside. The argument loses some force when officers
insist, as they often do, on having a Mercedes or Audi rather than
a less conspicuous Volkswagen or Renault.
Back inside I found St. Martin drinking coffee in his bathrobe.
"John," he said, "I've got to meet Colonel Mwamba for breakfast.
Maybe you'd better go on to the office and wait for me. Take my car.
Tell the driver, 'American embassy.'" He paused and poked at an
empty coffee cup. Then he pushed at a buzzer on the wall. "Where
is that damn 'boy'?"
To St. Martin I was an intruder, a representative from headquarters.
He would keep my leash as tight as possible. Thus, I was not
surprised when he showed up about eleven and gave one of his
American case officers elaborate instructions on exactly where to
take me, which car to use, whom we should talk to, and when to