In Search of Enemies - A CIA Story - John Stockwell

IN SEARCH OF ENEMIES
"I'll walk back to the embassy. Or catch a cab. Or maybe one of
these nice people will take me to lunch. I've got a job to do and not
much time to do it. Please .. . Just go back to the office ... Tell St.
Martin everything will be fine. At the latest I will be at his house
before two, to meet Roberto."
He started the motor again and drove briskly out the gate, with
an I'm-going-to-tell-my-daddy look on his face.
I found Johnny Eduardo, the FNLA second in command, in an
office, trapped by a dozen people who were contending loudly for his
attention. Seated behind a bare table, looking hot and uncomfortable,
Eduardo acknowledged my arrival with a nod, but made no effort to
rise. I was barely able to squeeze forward and shake his hand. There
was no chance I could make myself heard over the din. We shrugged
at each other and I elbowed my way back out. Eduardo was reported
to be less tolerant of the Americans even than Roberto, whose arrogance
was notorious. No matter that we were bankrolling their war,
Eduardo would continue to resent us.
So much for the FNLA headquarters, I thought ruefully, feeling
the noontime heat as I walked out of the compound.
What would I find at the FNLA front north of Luanda? We were
gambling s14 million that the FNLA fighting organization would be
more impressive than its Kinshasa headquarters.
Holden Roberto arrived at St. Martin's at five. While we waited,
Bubba Sanders scurried in, trailed by Raymond Chiles. They had
slipped into Kinshasa that morning to launch the FNLA propaganda
effort, using Kinshasa newspapers. Filled with ideas, they already
seemed to know their way around. They dropped names and spoke
in half-sentences, as though they had worked in IAFEATURE before,
and I guessed they had, many times, in other countries, with different
players.
Holden Roberto was trailed by four aides and staffers. We rose to
meet them. Taller than the others and wearing an exquisitely tailored
Zairian bush jacket, Roberto was a dominant but rebarbative figure.
His n1outh turned slightly down in an expression of permanent disapproval.
His negative impact was compounded by small, darkly tinted
glasses which he never took off. I could sense no warmth, although
he addressed me politely enough. Bubba and Ray would have some
difficulty producing a sympathetic propaganda photo.
Born in Sao Salvadore, Angola, on January 12, 1923, Roberto was