The sonofabitch thinks it’s funny!
The leading security officer started into what he thought was a corridor.
It was instead an alcove, holding four house telephones and two pay telephones. The DCI was using one of the pay phones.
The leading security officer sort of backed out of the alcove and took up a position facing the trailing security officer, who smiled at him and said, “Vigilance, Pete. Constant vigilance!”
The leading security officer mouthed, Fuck you!
The DCI was on the pay phone for almost twenty minutes. In that time he had spoken with the CIA’s regional director for Africa and the deputy director for Personnel, both of whom were in their homes.
The regional director for Africa told him that he had not seen either a satburs
t or a filing suggesting that a Russian arms dealer had stolen the Boeing 727 missing in Angola.
“Get on the horn, and right now, to whoever is directly responsible for Angola . . .”
“That would be the regional director for Southwest Africa, Mr. Director.”
“Whatever. And find out what he knows about this. I’ll call you back in ten minutes. Have a number where I can reach him.”
“It’s a her, Mr. Director. Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson.”
“All right, when I call you back have a number where I can reach her.”
“She’s over there, Mr. Director.”
“In Luanda?”
“Yes, sir. Actually, sir, she’s on her way back. By now, I think she’d probably be in either London or Paris.”
“Find out,” the DCI said. “If there’s time to make contact with her in London or Paris, get word to her that she is to come directly to my office from the airplane and is to speak to no one but you or me about anything.”
“Has something come up, Mr. Director?”
“That’s pretty obvious, wouldn’t you say? And if you can’t contact her before her plane takes off, have someone— you, if that’s possible—meet her plane when it lands and bring her directly to my office.”
“I don’t have an ETA on her plane, Mr. Director.”
“Well, get one!”
“If I have to contact you, Mr. Director, will you be at home?”
“I’ll be at the White House. I don’t want you calling me there about this. I’ll get back to you later.”
“Whatever you wish, Mr. Director.”
The deputy director for Personnel, when asked “Who is this man Miller we have in Luanda?” didn’t know off the top of his head, but he called his duty officer in Langley, who got the information.
The station chief in Luanda was an H. Richard Miller, Jr. His cover was assignment as the assistant military attaché.
“Where did he come from? How long has he been with us? What do we know about him?”
It took another ten minutes to get the answers: H. Richard Miller, Jr., had come to the agency from the Army, that he was a major in the Army, that he had been on temporary duty with the agency for seventeen months, five months as an instructor at the Farm, and since then in Luanda. Since he had been in Luanda, he had received two letters of official reprimand from the regional director for Southwest Africa, one for exceeding his authority and the other for exceeding the limits of his discretionary operating funds.
“He’s relieved, as of now,” the DCI said. “His security clearances are suspended as of now. I want him out of Angola in twenty-four hours or less. I want somebody—somebody good; somebody we wouldn’t ordinarily send someplace like Angola—on his way there within four hours to replace him.”
“Gregory Leese is in Johannesburg, Mr. Director.”