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Page 60.

“Bad old days,” Crane said quietly. “The Belgians are going to lose the Congo, sooner rather than later. All the colonial powers are going to have to leave, it’s clear. And that opens up a huge can of worms.” Crane smiled gravely. “Humor me for a few moments, Tim. The old man, his name is Pierre. That’s not his real name, it’s a name the Belgians forced on him. He was given a real Congolese name by his parents, who belonged to the Zande people, when he was born in the 1880s. The Congo had been the personal property of the Belgian king, who exploited it mercilessly. Their favorite games included cutting children’s hands off if the parents didn’t work hard enough. Or they’d hold a man’s wife and children hostage, and cut their limbs off if the man didn’t bring enough rubber out of the bush. The Belgians were the cruelest of all the colonial rulers in the world. It got so bad that the world became outraged, and Brussels forced the king to relinquish the Congo, which became the property of the Belgian people. You’ll see pictures of Congolese men in chains, with nets over their heads, waiting to be deported to work camps for the slightest crimes real or imagined. Oh, yes, Pierre, he was nine years old when an overseer with a machete whacked off his hand, because the overseer happened to be having a bad day. Well, I could go on. The point is, you see, whites aren’t too popular here. The European powers have bled each other dry in two wars, have beaten each other to the brink of death, and cannot hold on to old colonial possessions. That means there will be a power vacuum. We’re still fighting this world war, Tim, but the Axis is already beaten here in Africa. It’s just a matter of time until the rest follows, and then, with fascism in the trash, the world will become a fighting ground between capitalism and communism.”

Tim sipped his coffee, munched sweet almond-chocolate pastries, and listened in silence.

Crane sipped black coffee and lit another of his endless cigarettes. “Tim, we are headed for a huge showdown with the Soviets.”

“We?”

“The United States. Capitalism. Free enterprise against state-control. I’d like you to work for me in London. Work for Donovan, O.S.S., for your country. What do you say?”

Tim thought about it. He liked the Navy, but didn’t want to serve at sea again—at least for a long while. “If it will help my country, I’m in.” The fan spun slowly, steadily, casting its shadows rhythmically over the desk and the carpet.

“Excellent. I thought you’d say that. Rest up for a day or two, and then I’ll fly you down into Katanga Province and show you a thing or two.”

They drove out of the downtown area and along a broad boulevard, through an area of sidewalk vegetable markets, along a short stretch of highway, and into a wealthy European settlement with parks, mansions, and palm trees lining the street.

“Welcome to Gombe,” Crane said, flicking a cigarette out the window into the steamy air. “Nearby is Mbala Park. Very scenic.”

They came to a small house on a side street, and the driver helped Tim in the front door. Black servant women in gilded, colorful silk turbans clucked worriedly and helped Tim into a back bedroom. It was a small, pleasant, sunny ranch style house with large, leafy trees in the back yard and a swimming pool with a small waterfall. Coconut palms graced the background. Black gardeners worked at a steady but unhurried pace. Tim found himself fading

Crane was not married, but appeared to have at least one live-in black woman, a voluptuous young Kongo with short, thick hair and bluish-black skin. She had a bruised, worldly-wise humor that suggested she was a survivor who knew how to keep her mouth shut and serve. Or service. But she was exclusively Crane’s. He could not, of course, parade her about, but he sent her shopping several times a week in a red Mercedes that he kept for her in an apart garage in nearby Matele. Tim learned this because their driver, Moise, liked to combine his chores into a complicated itinerary that served everyone’s purposes, including Crane’s. Moise was a young Congolese with a cocky, wise attitude but no apparent rancor against whites. Rather, he regarded himself as a kind of homme-fixer who made things happen, whether it was bringing Giselle (the mistress) to a fashion show downtown, or the delivery of used clothing to an orphanage in Brazzaville across the river, or running Tim by the improvised U.S. Legation commissary/PX in Kinshasa to pick up favorite items like his green Colgate soap, Burma-Shave, Juicy Fruit gum, Maxwell House coffee, just about anything one could buy in the good old U.S.A.