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Page 57.

A sign said Leopoldville * Provence de Kinshasa * Le Congo Belge. The airport and the city had a frantic, businesslike air. Military operations and commerce mingled, and judging from the rapt looks of men in business suits hurrying here and there, plenty of opportunity for the right person in the right place to make a hefty franc—or buck. Most of the businessmen were white. A small number looked like well-heeled local officials, representatives of tribal chiefs, the small number of Congolese natives allowed into the restrictive and paternal Belgian administrative bureaucracy.

Tim carried Malone’s suitcase. He had his shirt collar open and was mopping his neck with a large handkerchief by the time he arrived at the grassy half circle where the flags of the main Allied nations flew. The sun beat down with hammers. He pushed through a glass, aluminum-framed door into a gloomy, cooler lobby where several large fans blew the turgid air around, but it was noticeably cooler than outside. Tim walked up to a reception counter, where one black Congolese woman and two white Belgian women were busy answering phones and being secretarial.

“Hello,” he said, “I’d like to see the American consul.”

A Belgian woman, a pretty young blue-eyed blonde, looked up. “Bonjour, Monsieur. You are Anglais?”

“American,” he said.

“Bien. I will send you in.” She depressed an intercom switch and spoke in French. Then she nodded to him. She twisted in her seat and pointed down a dark tiled hallway. “You go there, s’il vous plait.”

“Thanks.” He headed down the pleasantly gloomy corridor that smelled of cigarettes and coffee. He passed doors with tiny flags on them, until he came to one with a stars and stripes and the legend: “U.S. Affairs.”

He knocked, heard a man’s voice, and found himself in a cluttered office with four desks, three women busily typing, and a middle-aged man in shirtsleeves practicing a golf stroke on the red carpeting. The man hardly looked up. “You American?”

“Yessir.” He gave his name, rank, and serial number. “I was shipwrecked off Mauritania and escaped from slavers by air. I want to be repatriated.”

The man laughed. “You’re shitting me.”

“Why do you think that?” Tim was beginning to think he’d look cute with the golf club sticking out of his rear end.

“Slavers? I’ve heard some stories, but that’s original.” He putted and his ball rolled unevenly across the carpet to make a small pok sound going into an empty soup can lying on its side. “Yeah! Damn, am I good.” He wiped his brow and set his putter aside. “What’s your name again?”

“Tim Nordhall, Lieutenant (j.g.), U.S. Navy.”

“Got papers?”

“Not my own.”

The man frowned. “What does that mean?”

Tim felt a prickling of concern on his neck. Reluctantly, he waved the dead Malone’s papers. “Took these off a dead man to help me escape Vichy cops.”

The man looked at him with mean laughter in his eyes, but snatched the papers. As he arrogantly flicked the papers open, he said: “What’s your game, pal? What’s your racket?”

Tim didn’t bother answering. Why get into a scene with this paper pusher?

The man, whose name plate on his desk read Edward Bouvard, GS-7, said in a slightly louder tone: “I am asking you, what’s your game?”

Tim put one foot up on his suitcase and folded his hands on his knee. “I guess, Mr. Bouvard, you need to see your audiologist. I’ve already told you my story.”

“All right,” Bouvard said. “Be an asshole. Sit down outside in the waiting room. I’ll hang on to these.” He waved the papers, as if he’d fight Tim for them if Tim were to lunge for them.

Tim picked up his suitcase. “Don’t make me wait, Mr. Bouvard, or I’ll come in and ruin your day for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bouvard said with outthrust chin.

“You figure it out, Eddy boy.”

Tim went outside, down the hall, back to the reception area. He found a bench and a stack of old Life magazines, and sat back to kill time reading while keeping an eye on the occasional attractive secretary wandering past on high heels and with padded shoulders. Tim breathed in deeply—perfume, attitude, beauty—oh it was good to be back in civilization.

A quarter hour, a half hour, an hour went by. Tim put his magazine down and strode down the hall carrying his suitcase. If Mr. Bouvard, or Eddy boy, was making him wait just to bust balls, he’d have a word or two with him. He thrust the door open so that it slammed against the wall. The three women stopped typing and looked up.

“Where is my friend Eddy?” Tim said. “Mr. Golf.”

The women looked at each other. One said: “He was making some phone calls about you and suddenly got called away.”

Another woman said: “You wait. They are anxious to see you.”

“Who?” Tim asked.

The women looked at each other again. “The men in Building 405.”

Tim set his suitcase down. “What men are those?”

“Why,” the oldest of the three women said, “the mystery boys. We have no idea what they do in there, but there are guards all over the place.”

Tim went back to the lobby and cooled his heels some more. He felt agitated, as the day waned and he was getting hungry again. A water cooler with New Jersey nomenclature and little paper cone cups offered some comfort and solace. The bathroom was a wooden shack outside that smelled to high heaven and offered warning notices about checking for snakes before sitting down on its dark, whispering secrets. There were even pictures of the offending vipers, including the deadly green mamba.

When he returned to the front of the building, a dark blue sedan was parked in the drive, surrounded by three big guys in suits and hats. The license plate was Belgian, with palm trees and a crown. The shoes on one of the men were distinctly American white-walls of the golfing variety. A fourth man, spectacled, slick-haired, graying, came out of the building looking very worried and trailed by a much-humbled Edward Bouvard.

“Major Malone!” said Spectacles.

“Nordhall,” Tim said, “but we’re getting close. Did dumb-nuts here forget my name, rank, and serial number?”

Bouvard looked like a different fellow, utterly meek, but Tim grasped the top of his ear to shake it. Bouvard feebly resisted. Tim said: “I told this stupid bastard who I really am.” He let go of Bouvard and repeated his name, rank, and serial number.