In Search of Enemies - A CIA Story - John Stockwell

[122] IN SEARCH OF ENEMIES
"Why was I treated so harshly at the airport?" I asked. Falstaff
explained: These white soldiers had families still under MPLA control
in Luanda. All were using aliases and taking precautions to keep
their association with the FNLA secret. They did not want to be
photographed by an unknown journalist.
As we sat down to a skimpy meal of dried salt-fish cooked in palm
oil, with a healthy sprinkling of ground red peppers, and some boiled
potatoes, I was introduced with little formality to Colonel Castro,
Bento's rival, and to an African, Hendrick Vaal Neto, who I recognized
as IACASTLE/ 4, the FNLA politician who had been minister
of interior in the transitional government in Luanda. Bento and
Falstaff sat at the far end of the table with others who were not
introduced to me. Holden Roberto had not arrived.
We ate in virtual silence. Either they were cooling it until Roberto
showed up and confirmed my story, or there was too much rivalry
and mistrust among these FNLA leaders. When I tried to converse,
Colonel Castro gave me a "Sorry, I no speak English." Neto looked
at me blankly and mumbled brusque answers to my questions. Bento
gave me one hard look and concentrated on his food. Only Falstaff,
perhaps eager to get back on the payroll, responded, smiling and
nodding. It didn't catch on. Silence reigned. Of these men, Castro
was the most consequential, and I looked him over as we ate. He was
small and bald, but somehow managed to look urbane, even in a
sportshirt in this rustic, middle-class, colonial dining room. After the
meal he called forth enough English to bemoan his inability to off er
me a good whiskey, then disappeared into the night.
Returning to the veranda alone, I settled into a chair, discouraging
the communicators from joining me. I wanted no inhibition on my
freedom to mix with Africans and Portuguese.
The lights went out abruptly and silence engulfed the sleepy tropical
town as a big diesel somewhere in the background stopped its
muffled roar. Neto brought me a candle and some matches. Diesel
fuel had to be conserved, he apologized. He would not join me. I left
the candle unlit and relaxed into my chair knowing from experience
that everyone would bed down early-nothing so curtails a community's
social life as darkness.
Rubber-soled boots scraped quietly on the dirt walk. I became
aware of a man's shadowy form mounting the steps of the veranda.
He paused a moment, then moved toward me. My muscles began to