Chief of Station, Congo

IT HAD BEEN A ROUGH DAY, but there was more to come. That evening, Tim called me into his office along with McIlvaine, Lavallee, and Carlucci. We endlessly discussed the odds on Kasavubu or Lumumba prevailing in the power structure but came to no conclusion. Finally, Tim turned to me.

“Well,” I said, “I could run the blockade again and sit down with Kasavubu and Bomboko and try to obtain their views. Meanwhile, you could try to see Lumumba.” As no one had a better idea than this, the meeting broke up, and I set out for the presidency.

This time there were surprisingly few roadblocks and a handful of cigarettes got me through the gate once more. I was shown into a small, windowless waiting room where I sat for a while going over in my mind what I was going to say to Kasavubu and Bomboko. The door opened. I looked up expecting to see a member of the president’s staff.

Instead, Colonel Mobutu stood in the doorway flanked by two soldiers with submachine guns at the ready. I jumped to my feet. My first thought was that the army had captured the palace and that I might be Mobutu’s prisoner. The guns were trained on me, fingers on the trigger. Mobutu looked very solemn.

“I’m anxious to talk to you,” he said with a tight, little smile. He was in full military dress, tall, rail thin, and very, very young. He almost looked like a high school kid all decked out in an ROTC uniform. He was only twenty-nine and his voice, which would become gravelly with age, was a smooth baritone. He cleared his throat and put one hand in his coat pocket.

“The president and prime minister have dismissed each other. Political games!” He made a long, disdainful hissing noise. “This is no way to create a strong, independent, democratic Congo! So, where do we go from here?”

“I know we don’t have enough educated Congolese to fill the shoes of all the Belgian civil servants who’ve left the country. But that doesn’t mean I want Soviet technicians to take their place. We didn’t fight for independence to have another country re-colonize us.” He paused. “Did you know that during the past two weeks the Soviets have been in Camp Leopold II [later renamed Camp Kokolo, the main army camp in Leopoldville] telling our soldiers that the Soviet Union is the only truly democratic state and Marxism is the only road to freedom and democracy? They say that the Western countries are only interested in stealing the Congo’s wealth while the Soviet Union is our real friend.”

He stepped outside and muttered something to a soldier. He returned with some of the books and pamphlets he said the Soviets were handing out to the troops. I glanced at them and saw that they contained typical Soviet propaganda. I also noticed that most of them were printed in English with British spelling. (We later determined that they had been printed in Ghana.) The fact that the books were in English, of course, defeated the Soviets’ objective of using them to influence the thinking of the Congolese soldiers since they hardly spoke broken French, let alone English.

“I met with Lumumba and asked him to tell the Soviets to stay away from the army,” Mobutu said. “Lumumba said he would, but nothing’s happened. He hasn’t kept his word. Not to me. Nor to the army. When I asked him again about Soviet interference, Lumumba told me to mind my own business. He said that this was a political matter and none of my business. I tried to argue, but Lumumba said the Soviets would be allowed to enter the camp and talk to the troops as long as they wished, and that I was not to interfere.

“So ... what it comes down to is this: I’ve called all of my area commanders to Leopoldville to discuss the Soviet problem. They are scheduled to go back to their posts tomorrow. They are all as unhappy about Soviet efforts to penetrate the army as I am.”

Finally, he said, “Here is the situation: the army is prepared to overthrow Lumumba. But only on the condition that the United States will recognize the government that would replace Lumumba’s. The government we would establish would be temporary and would stay in power only so long as necessary to get the Soviets out of the Congo and to create a democratic regime.”

“They’ll both have to be neutralized,” he answered without missing a beat. “We’ll replace them with educated men, a government of technocrats, and I’ll remain in the army.”

Allen Dulles had made it absolutely clear to me that the United States wanted Lumumba removed from power, but I had always thought in terms of a legal or parliamentary change, not an army coup. The question was whether Washington was prepared to recognize a government installed by means of a coup to achieve its goal. Yet the more I considered Mobutu’s plan, the better it sounded. After all, I had not been able to come up with a solution to the Lumumba problem. Nonetheless, I knew I did not have the authority to guarantee the United States’ support for a coup d’état nor its recognition of the government that Mobutu was prepared to install afterwards. Furthermore, our government did not, to the best of my knowledge, have anything against President Kasavubu who, as chief of state, was a key figure.

As I dodged a reply to Mobutu’s question, Bomboko appeared, shook my hand and slipped me a note. He turned to Mobutu and told him how Jeff and I had helped him get to the palace. I read Bomboko’s note, which was succinct and to the point. “Aidez-lui,” it said. “Help him.”

Mobutu and Bomboko recounted at length the ineptitude of the Lumumba government, about how he ran it as a one-man show, seldom listening to his ministers’ advice, and about the threat posed to the Congo by the Soviet Union.

I was already well aware that Lumumba was toying with the Soviets’ support. Although I did not believe that he was either a communist or a Soviet agent, I was convinced that he was being manipulated by the Soviets and that he would, sooner rather than later, fall under their control. I knew, however, that I did not have the authority to do what Mobutu and Bomboko wanted.

“I’ve got to get back to my commanders,” Mobutu said, turning to leave. “I have to give them a ‘go’ or a ‘no go’ order. Lumumba doesn’t know they’re here, so they must get back to their bases before he finds out.”

It was time to fish or cut bait. I was a young and relatively inexperienced station chief with one hell of a decision to make. I did not want to embarrass my country or the CIA. But I could no longer dodge the question of whether the United States was prepared to recognize a government installed by a military coup. If I refused to cooperate with Mobutu, he might decide that he had no alternative but to support Lumumba. That, in turn, would mean that Lumumba would appoint one of his men to replace Kasavubu, a person who would almost certainly follow Lumumba’s orders. That would lead to a strong possibility of the Congo falling under the control of the Soviet Union.

So I held out my hand to Mobutu and said with as much conviction as I could muster: “I can assure you the United States government will recognize a temporary government composed of civilian technocrats.”

Mobutu’s face was totally impassive. His gaze was steady, unreadable. “The coup will take place within a week,” he said. “But I will need five thousand dollars to provide for my senior officers. If the coup fails, we will all be in prison or dead. The money will be for our families. My area commanders were all noncommissioned officers and poorly paid so their families will not expect a large sum. But I have to assure them that they will not be destitute.”

Having already vastly exceeded my authority, I made another promise on behalf of the U.S. government in a style that wasn’t exactly consultative or democratic. I assured Mobutu that the money would be available and arranged to meet him in his office early that morning.

“You can trust him,” Bomboko said, noting that I was in need of reassurance. “If he pulls it off”—at this if, I must have looked like a hooked fish gasping for air—“and he will, it will be a great thing for this country. Mobutu is nothing if not a patriot, a nationalist. You’ll see, you’ll see.”

I left the presidential residence without further incident. A sleepy UN guard opened the gate from inside, and I did not see any Congolese soldiers outside. They appeared to be following Kasavubu’s example. At high speed, I drove to the embassy, where Jeff was loyally waiting for me.

When I told him of the guarantee I had given Mobutu, I could see from his expression that he knew I had just put my future on the line. The first priority was to inform Headquarters. If they did not approve, I would still have time to tell Mobutu that my guarantee was no longer valid. Unfortunately, our communicator had lost radio contact with Washington and had been unable to reach Headquarters for several hours. The next step was to tell Tim. It was about 2:00 a.m. when I drove into the circular driveway of his residence, parked, and tried to ring the bell, which didn’t work. So I had to resort to a little breaking and entering. Not a sound. I checked the windows and managed to force one open.

Once in the residence, I turned on some lights and found my way up to the ambassador’s bedroom. I had to pound on the door to make him hear me over the racket made by a noisy window air-conditioner.

“It must be important if you are here at this hour,” Tim mumbled sleepily. “I’ll be right down. Fix yourself a drink and, while you’re at it, make one for me.”

I told him the full story. Tim mulled it over for a moment, sipping his drink. “Larry, tell me something,” he said slowly. “Do you have a personal fortune or enough service time to qualify for retirement?”

“No, you did the right thing,” he said quickly. “Lumumba is a wild man, a dangerous man. But I want to be sure that you realize the gravity of your action and the risk it poses for your future as a CIA officer.”

Back at the embassy, our communications were still down. I contacted Bobby, my ace recruiter and an experienced political action officer, because I wanted to take him with me when I met Mobutu later that morning with the money he had requested. As an American official, it would not be a good idea for me to be seen with Mobutu too often, especially after he had led a coup, and Bobby was the ideal man to maintain the connection.

Bobby and I arrived at army headquarters at the early hour agreed upon with Mobutu. An aide asked us to wait in the hall and assured us Colonel Mobutu would not be long. Suddenly, a squad of soldiers armed with submachine guns filed in and took up positions directly opposite us.

“We have been set up,” Bobby said softly. It did not look good. We were working up a sweat when a soldier at the end of the line put down his gun and went out, probably responding to a call of nature. Bobby and I instinctively moved slowly toward the gun. It was not a good solution but, if what we feared came to pass, we wanted to be able to put up a fight. At that time, I was sick and tired of the games it appeared the Congolese were playing, games that could end my career as an intelligence officer, games that could result in my death.

We were within reach of the submachine gun, should the need arise, when Mobutu’s secretary appeared to say he would see us. We went in and I introduced Bobby as “Dr. Roberti,” a representative of major international business interests eager to prevent the spread of communism in Africa. Should the need arise, we wanted a story that Mobutu could plausibly use to explain Bobby’s connection with him.

Mobutu appeared relaxed and confident. He said he had met his area commanders and told them that the coup was on. “I’ll be setting a date and time shortly but it will be within the next week,” he said. “I’ll take control of the radio station, announce the formation of a new government, and declare the Soviet and Czech embassies and the Chinese communist delegation persona non grata.”

At the embassy, our communications were up and running again and I finally sent off a full report of Mobutu’s plan and what I had promised the U.S. Government would do to support him. The full seriousness of what I was doing hit me once again as I initialed the cable. There was still time to warn Mobutu to call the coup off if Headquarters disapproved of my actions. But that would fatally undermine my credibility with the young colonel, severely limit my usefulness in the Congo, and almost certainly end my career.

Fortunately, I had other things on my mind, notably preparing Bobby for his intermediary’s role with Mobutu. I had warned him that whenever he visited the military camp where Mobutu had his headquarters, he could expect to be roughed up or given a difficult time by the soldiers. He had listened attentively and nodded.

Meetings with Bobby were always a bit of a walk on the wild side because I never knew what he would do next, but they were invariably instructive as I found out when I later visited him in his apartment. He was busy preparing for his first solo visit to Mobutu the next day. He showed me a briefcase that looked rather like the type of bag doctors used to carry when they made house calls. He also had a blood pressure gauge, a small rubber hammer for measuring reflexes, several other medical instruments, and about twenty bottles of aspirin and malaria suppressants. Removing the labels from the bottles, he explained that he had become a physician, to match his new title, and here was the proof.

“I don’t intend to have those camp guards lay a finger on me,” he said. “After all, I am a doctor.” He tucked the aspirins and malaria suppressants into the pockets of the bag and winked. “I’m sure they can use some of these.”