“What’s come up?”
“We think someone has stolen an airplane.”
“A 727?”
“How did you know?”
“Antonio, you have to take a piss.”
“Please, I cannot.”
Yes you can, you sonofabitch. I hand you a hundred-dollar bill each and every month. And you know what I expect of you.
“Trust me, Antonio. You have
diarrhea. I’ll be waiting in the men’s room.”
[THREE]
Office of the Ambassador Embassy of the United States of America Rua Houari Boumedienne 32 Luanda, Angola 1540 23 May 2005
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Ambassador, on such short notice,” Miller said to the United States ambassador and then turned to the defense attaché, an Air Force lieutenant colonel. “And you, sir, for meeting me here so quickly.”
The ambassador was a fellow African American, from Washington, D.C. Miller didn’t dislike him, but he did not hold him in high regard. Miller thought the ambassador had worked his way up through the State Department to what would probably be the pinnacle of his diplomatic career by keeping his nose clean and closely following the two basic rules for success in the Foreign Service of the United States: Don’t make waves, and never make a decision today that can be put off until next week, or, better, next month.
The defense attaché was Caucasian, which Miller attributed to a momentary shortage of what used to be called “black” or “Negro” officers of suitable rank when the defense attaché post came open.
According to applicable regulations, Miller was subordinate to both. To the ambassador, because he was the senior U.S. government officer in Angola; and to the defense attach é, because he was a lieutenant colonel and Miller a major, and also because the defense attaché is supposed to control the military (Army) and Naval attachés.
But in practice, it didn’t work quite that way. Miller’s assistant military attaché status was the cover for his being the Resident Spook and both knew it. And when he was, as he thought of it, on the job, he not only didn’t have to tell the defense attaché what he was doing, but was under orders not to, unless the defense attaché had a bona fide need to know.
The ambassador was, Miller had quickly learned, more than a little afraid of him. For two reasons, one being that Miller had come out of Special Forces. Like most career diplomats, the ambassador believed that Special Forces people —especially highly decorated ones like Miller—were practitioners of the “Kill ’Em All and Let God Sort It Out” school of diplomacy, and consequently lived in fear that Miller was very likely to do something outrageous which would embarrass the embassy, the State Department, the United States government, and, of course, him.
More important than that, probably, was a photograph Miller had hung, not ostentatiously but very visibly, in the corridor of his apartment leading to the bathroom. Once a month, Miller was expected to have a cocktail party for his fellow diplomats. Anyone who needed to visit the facilities could not miss seeing the photograph.
It showed two smiling African American officers in Vietnam-era uniforms. One was a colonel, wearing a name tag identifying him as MILLER. He had his arm around a young major, from whose jacket hung an obviously just awarded Bronze Star. His name tag read POWELL.
Both officers had gone on to higher rank. Miller’s father had retired as a major general. The major had retired with four stars and had been the secretary of state.
It was not unreasonable, Miller thought, to suspect the ambassador feared that Miller had influence in the highest corridors of power, and might, in fact, be sending back-channel, out-of-school reports on his performance to Secretary Powell, who was still—according to Forbes magazine—one of the ten most influential men in the United States.
That was nonsense, of course. Miller knew Powell well enough to know that a large ax would fall on his neck, wielded by Powell himself, if he made a habit of sending back-channels to Powell or anyone in his circle. But he did nothing to assuage the ambassador’s worries.
“You said this was important, Major Miller?” the ambassador said.
“No, sir. With respect, making a decision like that is not for someone of my pay grade. What I said was that I thought you and Colonel Porter might consider this important. That’s why I thought I should bring this to your attention as soon as possible, sir.”
“What is it, Dick?” Colonel Porter asked.
“It would seem, sir, that someone has stolen an airplane from Quatro de Fevereiro.”
“Really?” the ambassador asked.
“What kind of an airplane, Dick?” Colonel Porter asked.
“A 727, sir. The one that’s been sitting out there for fourteen months.”
“How the hell did they do that?” Colonel Porter asked. “You can’t just get in an airplane that hasn’t moved for fourteen months and fire it up.”