“Thank you Major,” Foyte replied. “But we need to wait for Major Lee.”
“Oh, is he still aboard the plane?”
Foyte was formulating a diplomatic reply when Whitney interjected, “Oh, no, darlin’. He’s runnin’ around lookin’ for our reception committee!” Leaning close, she whispered just loud enough to be overheard. “West Pointer. You know how tight those academy boys are wrapped.”
Roosevelt shook his head imperceptibly, as if avoiding a persistent insect. When he found his voice he said, “Yes, ma’am. I surely do. Class of ‘93.” He flashed the ring on his right hand.
Without missing a beat, Whitney batted her big brown eyes and touched his arm again. “Oh, I think that’s
Major Matthew Roosevelt had just learned the first thing about Martha Whitney: she could not be embarrassed or flustered.
At that moment Lee arrived, momentarily wondering why Whitney was holding hands with a stranger. As he approached, Lee realized that she was examining the man’s USMA jewelry.
Foyte made the introductions. As the two West Pointers shook hands, Whitney reluctantly released her grip on the attache.
“Welcome to Chad,” Roosevelt exclaimed.
“Thanks,” Lee replied. Trying to minimize Whitney’s representation as an SSI member, he sought to talk shop. “Ah, you know, I was surprised to see we have an attache office here. Is that new?”
Roosevelt nodded. “Affirmative. Usually we just maintain an advisory group, but the way things are going in the region, it was decided to upgrade the staff. We also have an Air Force rep out of Cairo who rotates between here and Niger.”
As the group gathered its luggage, Whitney was distracted long enough for Roosevelt to give Lee the visual equivalent of the West Point secret handshake. “Tell me something,” the attache muttered. “Is she always like this?”
Lee grimaced. “Yeah, pretty much. Martha would flirt with the Pope and call him ‘honey.’“
Roosevelt’s eyes widened. “Hey, I think I’ll invite her to the next diplomatic reception!”
Francois Kadabi was a tall, slender bureaucrat with an easy command of French, English, Arabic, and several Chadian dialects. He extended a long, bony hand and purred, “Ah, Major Lee. So good to meet you.” The deputy secretary motioned with his other hand. “Shall we have some tea?”
Lee disliked the man immediately, so he smiled broadly. “My pleasure, sir. And thank you. I would enjoy that.”
Settled at the marble-topped table, the two officials regarded one another as a servant poured. Kadabi dismissed the man with a flick of the hand, as if shooing away a bothersome pest.
Once they were alone, the Chadian immediately set down his cup and leaned forward. “Major, I shall do you the honor of speaking plainly.” He gave an ingratiating smile. “That is, if you do not object to candor so soon in our… relationship.”
The American nodded slowly. “Certainly, sir.” He paused. “After all, honesty
Kadabi seemed to relax. He leaned back, grinning whitely, his head rearward. “Ah-ha! I thought so!” The bureaucrat actually slapped a knee. “You Americans and your sense of humor! You say one thing but your voice and your face speaks the opposite.”
Before Lee could respond, Kadabi was leaning forward again, all angular urgency. “Major, I believe that we both know the ways of politics and politicians.” He shrugged eloquently. “For myself, I live in the world of politicians, of course, but I am merely a facilitator. My country, poor as she is, badly needs the services that your firm can provide. But I wanted this opportunity to explain something to you.”
Lee felt his initial frostiness receding. He thought:
Francois Kadabi was rubbing his elegant hands together, apparently unconsciously. “Much as we need you, I believe that you should hear the truth. There are, I fear, people in this nation and in the government who do not wish you to succeed. Their motives are plain — jealousy and money. Always money.”
Lee turned his head as if studying the specimen more closely. Which in fact was the case. “Sir, I had a pretty thorough briefing before I left Washington and I’ve met with our attache here. He explained the, ah, rivalry that exists between the army and the security forces. But if there’s more to it, I’d be grateful for your views.”
Kadabi folded his hands beneath his chin. “Major Lee, this after all is Africa. On top of the political rivalries that exist everywhere, there is our own set of complications. Some are historic, some are tribal. But you are charged with forming an elite unit — a
Lee did not want to assume too much of Mr. Kadabi’s education, nor too little. He ventured an historic comparison. “The praetorian guard syndrome?”
“No, not exactly.” Kadabi abruptly rose, turned to his desk, and produced a folder. “A praetorian guard owes its allegiance to the head of state, keeping that head upon its throne.” He grinned archly. “Or, more precisely upon its shoulders.”
Steve Lee seldom changed his mind quickly. He was aware that his opinion of Francois Kadabi represented an exception.
“This country has two or three praetorian guards. Maybe more. But your unit is undoubtedly going to be technically competent and capably led. That means it could be seen as a threat.” His eyebrows arched. “You see the implications, of course.”
Lee stood to face his new ally. “Sir, I am most appreciative of your candor. But let me ask: how can our counterinsurgency force be a threat to the power structure? For one thing, we’re not political — we’re operational. For another, we’re probably going to be operating well away from the capital.”
Kadabi gave another ingratiating smile, this time with some warmth. “Major, you are correct. But please indulge me if I say that you are taking the military man’s perspective. I must account for other factors.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Consider this: when your contract is completed, you will return to America. But your force will remain, and it may be seen as a virus that could multiply and spread. For that reason, I share my concerns with you.”
Immediately, Lee knew that the African was right. “Then we have a lot more to discuss, sir. I mean, I’d like to know who we can trust to…”
“Trust!” Kadabi raised his eyes to the paneled ceiling. “Major Lee, you and I may trust one another, I believe. Outside this room… I would be far more cautious. Yes, far more cautious.”
Lee sat down again, demonstrating his willingness for further discussion. “Well, as long as there’s enough tea to keep my throat wet, I’ll be glad to talk, Mr. Kadabi.”
The minister unleashed his slippery grin again. Pointedly glancing at his Swiss watch, he said, “It is still rather early in the day, my friend. But, ah, shall we change to something more… convivial?”
Before Lee could answer, Kadabi pressed the buzzer on his desktop. The servant reappeared, bearing a bottle of iced champagne.
The American’s expression opened visibly. “Ah, Mr. Kad…”
Kadabi raised his slim right hand again. “Please. From now on I am Francois.”
“All right… Francois. I’m Steve.”
“Now then, Steve, this is a decent ‘89. That is, if you do not object.”
Lee shook his head slightly. “Not hardly, sir. Er, Francois. Usually I’m partial to single-malt scotch.”
“Very well, Steve. I shall remember. For next time.”
23
