A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (6 page)

“What do you make of all the Russians here?” asked Donner.

Marquez sipped his drink and shrugged. “To be honest, I haven't seen many of them, certainly haven't spoken to them. Why? Have you had problems with them?”

Donner sneered. “The Russians are always a problem, no matter where in the world you go. They were welcomed here by that fool, Lumumba. I think that he will live to regret it… or maybe he won't.”

Marquez cocked his head curiously.
Maybe this conversation with the Austrian might prove useful,
he thought. He decided to press the topic further, after all, who knew where it might lead. “Why? Do you know something that the rest of us don't? Lumumba is certainly unpopular in certain quarters, but my reading of it is that if he could rally enough support from his people he could regain power.”

Donner shrugged, “Possibly, but if that happened, he would open the gates of the city and the USSR would simply walk right into Africa. Think about it. No more free trade, a semi-communist state, no room for European investors. All Soviet owned.”

Marquez nodded. “But what can we do Franz, we are after all, only small businessmen. We don't have the means to pressure the Soviet Union, unfortunately.”

“Maybe not directly. But if you are interested in helping the people here, there are things that can be done to at least halt its takeover in its tracks. Practical things, things that happen on the ground. Things that would benefit European businessmen like you and me.”

Then it occurred to Marquez that this tough-looking little man actually imagined that he was trying to recruit him! If it hadn't been so amusing, he might have taken offence. Marquez looked at the Austrian with new eyes.

“I could use a man like you. I see it in your eyes, Lucien – beneath that veneer you are a man unafraid of action. I am in touch with people who are disgusted at the way these communists are treating Africa and its peoples, by putting up their puppets in the seat of power.”

Marquez drained the last of his drink. “There will always be people who revel in power,
mon ami
, it has always been that way.”

“Of course, of course, but these friends of mine have taken it upon themselves to act, to stop the rot that is ruining the Congo.”

“Who are they?” Marquez asked curiously.

Donner considered this man carefully. Could he trust him? He was a European after all and his brief was to organize and run an assassination unit, ready to act at a moment's notice to bring down whichever of the players the Americans saw fit to eliminate as a contender to power over the Congo. “Not here. Too many ears here and none of them trustworthy. What about a nightcap at the
Numero Dix
nightclub? Do you know it?”

Marquez shook his head.

“It is run by a Corsican tough guy; it would be a good place for us to talk more, no disturbances and most of the clientele are discreet, plus the girls are very accommodating.”

They took a taxi and arrived at the
Numero Dix
, a large, expensively furnished bar, five minutes' drive away from the Intercontinental. It was dark inside, with glass and chrome in abundance, giving it a sinister edge. Marquez was aware of exotically-dressed waitresses flirting with several patrons. They found a booth, ordered drinks and only then did the Austrian begin to speak.

“I'm sorry about all the cloak and dagger, but there are certain places in this city where you feel secure and some that you don't, especially when discussing matters of life and death.”

“No problem. And are we? Discussing life and death, I mean?”

The Austrian huddled in close, their conversation, murmured, would be lost in the noise and bustle of the nightclub. “Not initially, but things can change fast. I'm putting together a team, a team of useful individuals who can be ready to act at a moment's notice. A team willing to do whatever's necessary, even getting their hands dirty. Does that bother you?”

Marquez shook his head; he knew what the man meant, but thought it best to play down his emotions. “Not so far. Although I'm not sure in what way I can help. I have no experience of combat,” he lied.

“Not everything has to be about combat. There are other ways that you could help the team I have; passing messages, moving equipment, watching an address, perhaps even giving us a piece of information that you have come across. Obviously we wouldn't expect you to do it for free. Three hundred American dollars a month to start with, more if special jobs come up.”

Donner didn't say what 'special jobs' involved, but Marquez guessed it was the type of job involving sub-machine guns and a human target. He pulled out a huge roll of Belgian Francs, tore a half a dozen from the pile and pushed them over to Marquez. “Don't decide now; think it over, there's no hurry. We'll call this a payment for taking up your valuable time. Questions?”

Marquez had several but thought it better to stick to the obvious one first, if nothing else, to see how professional this spy was. He decided to approach it in a half humorous, half curious way. “These, 'friends' of yours – who are they? Not locals, I assume. Is this for a foreign government? Are you a spy, Franz?”

The little Austrian gave a cursory look around the nightclub to make sure they hadn't been overheard. When he returned Marquez's gaze, he was smiling. “Come, my friend, I can neither confirm nor deny your conclusions.”

“But Franz, at least give me an inkling
who
would be paying my wages. If I'm to risk my life, I've a right to have a rough idea who I'm risking it for.”

Donner nodded in sympathy and Marquez could see that he was working out how much to tell his potential 'sub-agent'.

“Okay, what I can tell you is that I represent a modern nation that has seen the error of its ways since the Second World War. They are a country reborn, despite their recent difficulties and they feel that helping a nation in trouble, such as this one, will bring them back into the fold and gain the trust of their former enemies. I think that gives you enough clues as to who our supporters are.”

Marquez was impressed with the pitch; he even bought part of it. Donner was giving all the clues to point towards West Germany, but experience had told him that the Germans had enough to worry about, rather than concerning themselves with a flyspeck in Africa. No, things didn't add up and would need further investigating. “I will need time, as you say. Don't worry Franz, I will be discreet, but I need to think on this proposition.”

The Austrian looked at him, full of false bonhomie. “Of course, my friend, of course. We are men of the world and I wouldn't expect anything less than for you to be cautious. But I sense hidden depths in you, Luc. There is more to you than meets the eye.”

* * *

Marquez arrived back at his hotel an hour later. He had walked, enjoying the cool night air and besides, it had given him time to clear his head and correlate his thoughts. He wasn't drunk, far from it despite the amount of cheap alcohol he'd imbibed. But he needed to place the information from the night's encounter in some semblance of order.

There was always a sense of unreality about being on a mission. It didn't matter who it was for – the underworld, the Nazi's, French, Belgians or Americans – there was always that strange, out of body experience, as if the rules didn't apply when you were part of the secret world. He had felt it before and he would no doubt feel it again until he stopped with this strange business he had chosen as his own.

He stood in the darkness of his hotel room and stared out at the nighttime cityscape which greeted him. Large pockets of darkness, interspersed with small jewels of light, but further out in the distance the overpowering blackness of Africa.

Marquez focused his attention on a small area west of the city. Somewhere out there, a man was settling down for the evening, perhaps reading or writing some notes for his next speech or press release. The man was his target. He would find this target and he, Marquez, would ultimately be the cause of the man's demise.

“I think someone was trying to recruit me the other day,” said Marquez.

Deakin had picked him up outside the Botanical Gardens, on the thoroughfare fifteen minutes' walk away from the Intercontinental. It was busy enough that no one would have noticed the foreigner slip quickly into the passenger seat of the anonymous black sedan the American was driving. “Really. Who?”

“He says he's an Austrian, name of Franz Donner. He says he's trying to set up a camera shop business here in Leopoldville, which has to be the worst cover I've ever heard.”

Deakin laughed, he had heard worse in his time, certainly, but had to agree that a photographic business in chaos-driven Congo was a bit like trying to sell inflatable rafts in a desert. It was pointless. The Congolese had bigger things to be concerned about than cameras. “So what makes you think he's a spy?”

“He talked about the new resistance against the communists in the Congo. He claims that he's part of a group of Europeans who are ready to take up arms against the communist leaders here. I assume he's talking about Lumumba. He says he has a team at his disposal, ready to do some killing.”

“A hit-team! He's trying to recruit you to be part of a hit-team?” laughed Deakin. “Oh, the irony.”

But Marquez could see Deakin's mind ticking over, weighing up the information and seeing if it could benefit him. They were heading out toward the fringes of the city, so Deakin turned the car around and started to drive back to its interior.

Like most intelligence officers, he felt comfortable in the hustle and bustle of a city. You were less exposed and more vulnerable to being spotted by a canny surveillance team.

“So tell me about him,” said the CIA man.

Marquez thought carefully for a moment. “He looks like an operative, despite his attempts to disguise it. He's small, tough talking, looks as if he could handle himself in a fight. He says he's from Austria but his accent is all over the place. It might fool the locals here, but he's no Austrian, there's a touch of a French accent hidden away in there somewhere, it flits from one dialect to the other as if he doesn't have control of his own voice. He hinted that he was working for the Germans. Who knows, it might even be true.”

“Where did you meet?”

“The bar of my hotel, surprisingly enough! We got chatting, had a few drinks and then decided to go for a drink at
The Numero Dix
. It was then that he pitched his assassination team idea. If you want my opinion, based on my own experience, I would say he looks like a mercenary who was given an intelligence operation.”

“Okay, leave it with me, I'll check him out see if his name rings any alarm bells back at Langley. Keep him on the dangle, okay? Encourage him, see what you can find out, but don't commit yourself to anything,” suggested Deakin, steering the car back onto the main road.

“Understood,” said Marquez.

They passed an open-backed military truck, carrying a dozen soldiers with all their weapons on show. Both men tensed until it had passed them. Deakin kept an eye on the truck in the rear view mirror until it disappeared from view. “That's Mobutu's boys, flexing their muscles. Now, to other business. The target. How's that going?”

“So far, excellent. The go-between is arranging a meeting, where and when is still to be decided. It's a case of sitting and waiting it out.”

“But they seemed keen? They bought the story you fed them?”

“They appeared to. I would guess that they're trying their best to check out my bona fides.”

Deakin laughed. “Good luck with that one. They'll hit a wall. No, I think curiosity and the fact that they can feel the proverbial noose tightening around their necks will bring them around. Now, to one other piece of business.”

Marquez perked up. The waiting game over the past few days was beginning to take its toll on him. Spying, he knew was a game of patience, but sometimes he just yearned for the thrill of action.

“I have a couple of gifts for you, or more accurately for our friend the target. An asset from Langley brought them in directly to the Embassy today. Do you understand?”

Marquez nodded. This 'asset' was evidently someone from the CIA's Technical Services Division, bringing in the chemical agent that was to be used against Lumumba.

“Good,” said Deakin. “Open the glove compartment.”

Marquez opened it and found a tube of ordinary-looking toothpaste. The brand name was 'Gleamer', a generic title from a fictitious company. There was also a loaded Colt. 45 semi-automatic.

“The pistol's for you, keep it with you at all times more for personal protection than anything else. You can't be too careful around these parts. The toothpaste is for our friend. Looks normal right? Well, it isn't so don't you go touching it, or be tempted to brush your teeth with it,” said Deakin.

Marquez slipped the tube back into its cardboard container and placed it in his inside jacket pocket.

“It's odourless and untraceable to most toxicology tests,” said Deakin. “At least, anything that the people in this part of the world would be able to find. A pea-sized amount is enough to kill him.”

“How does it work?”

“It attacks the respiratory system, then the heart; the target will be dead within twelve hours, so I've been led to believe. You had any ideas about how to administer it to the target?”

Marquez shook his head. “Not yet, it's too early to say. I'll know more once I've had my first meeting. Possibly as a gift parcel from my supposed principals in Europe. Failing that, I'll have to see if anyone in Lumumba's entourage is susceptible to a bribe and introduce it that way.”

Deakin liked that plan. If the poisoned toothpaste was going to be the method of assassination, they were the most likely scenarios to ensure its success. “Good,” he said. “After that, all our problems will be over.”

* * *

The phone call to his hotel room came early the next morning. It was Patrick Kivwa, Lumumba's go-between and legal advisor. His voice sounded tinny and under stress. “The meeting is on, later today. A driver will pick you up in front of your hotel at midday. Bring your passport with you, so that the guards will let you through. You have one hour to talk. After that, the driver will take you back to the hotel.”

Promptly at 11.55am, Marquez stood and waited in the baking sun to take the journey to finally meet his target. The car was a 1960 Lincoln Limousine and the driver was a young, smartly dressed man who gave his name as Samuel.

Since being deposed in September, Lumumba had been under house arrest at his former official residence on the outskirts of Leopoldville. The Prime Minister's residence was an ornate colonial affair set in well-manicured grounds. The United Nations protection team manned a permanent guard and brooded over this unwelcome task. Guarding a target for political assassination was not a task they welcomed.

The car arrived at the residence twenty minutes later and Marquez was greeted at the entrance by Kivwa before being whisked through the reception area, up the main stairs and into the private office of Patrice Lumumba. Lumumba, dressed casually in a dark shirt and light cotton pants, came forward to meet him. Marquez thought he looked like a Sunday school teacher, rather than a politician engaged in an African coup-counter-coup conspiracy.

“Monsieur LeClerc, I am Patrice Lumumba, please sit so that we can be comfortable while we speak.” Marquez took in the man's face; bespectacled, somber, honorable. There was a lot to like about this man, Marquez sensed.

“I understand that you are a representative of certain outside interests. At least, that is what Patrick has told me, is that not correct? How can I help?” said Lumumba.

Marquez settled himself. This was probably going to be the highest risk pitch of his career. He knew there was going to be no middle ground; either Lumumba would believe every word and welcome him with open arms, or he would be cast out and the operation, at least from his end, would be over. He cleared his throat and looked the man square in the eyes.

“Prime Minister, I will be open with you and will not waste either your time or mine. I am but a messenger for a group of individuals who are sympathetic to your country's situation. We hope that you will give us an opportunity to help you.”

Lumumba inclined his head; “Monsieur, I am a reasonable man and will gladly listen to all voices of reason. But please tell me, who are these people you represent. Is it the French, the British, or please God, not the Americans again!”

Marquez shook his head. “No, not the Americans,” he lied. “We are subtler than that. Although I understand that you have had unhappy dealings with the USA.”

Lumumba cast his hands in the air, in a motion of exasperation. “Oh, the Americans are fools. They think of me as 'Moscow's man', but that is far from the case. Yes, I have accepted assistance from the Russians – why not? But I am not their puppet. I am my own man; I make my own allegiances. The Russians serve a purpose for now, but this country will never be a communist state. Not if I have my way.”

“And the Russians, do they know this?”

“The Russians can believe what they want. They assume that I am just as corrupt as my rivals here. But I am in no way like them. Kalonji is ineffective as a leader, he will do whatever he thinks people want. That is not leadership, it is weakness. How can he hope to rule the RC when he can't even rule himself? Tshombe has been bought by the Belgians and their mercenaries. He is venal. As for Mobutu; the Americans believe that they can control him, which makes them even more foolish than I first thought. The General is a dictator in waiting.”

“So what could you offer your people?” prompted Marquez, genuinely curious to know what made this man tick.

For the first time Lumumba seemed angry, affronted by his visitor's remark. “I have only the need to serve my people, to carry them through this crisis and give them a country they can be proud of. I have no wish to be anyone's puppet, but even I recognize that in this war of words between the west and the east, small countries like mine can be seen as mere pawns on a chess board.”

“I may have a third option, one that removes the Russians from the equation,” suggested Marquez. Lumumba watched him carefully as if deciding whether to listen, or have him thrown out of the building.

“We can get you to Stanleyville; there you can gather in -country support before a quick flight out of the country, a meeting with my principals, and then return to your base to remove your opponents.”

“And you are doing this out of the goodness of your heart, you and your leaders?”

“No, Prime Minister we are not. I know we are not; you know we are not. My people are businessmen. We have spotted a commercial opportunity to help, nothing more.”

“Ha, oh, so easy for you,” mocked Lumumba. Then his face set in stone as his mind turned to the serious business of money and what it could achieve. “And of the Congo's natural resources, what of them? Raped and pillaged, no doubt.”

Marquez shook his head.
Give him what he wants, tell him what he wants to hear and then reel him in.
“No. Businessmen and corporations are there for a profit certainly, but we are not governments and politicians who want to control and decimate. We would want the vast majority of the Congo's resources to be used to benefit the peoples of this nation; the money that my investors would make would be marginal by comparison. We are not the Belgian's after all; we are pragmatists and humanists.”

“But where is the profit for them in that!”

“Monsieur, even a small percentage of profits can be worth billions to the right people. We can supply engineers, surveyors; public relations people, a whole range of assistants who can make the Congo a stable proposition with Patrice Lumumba guiding his people. Imagine returning Katanga and South Kasai back into the fold of the Republic.”

“It sounds almost too good to be true,” said Lumumba.

“It could happen. I can get you to Stanleyville within twenty-four hours. By the end of the week, you can be in a safe European country, meeting with the consortium that I represent; serious men, practicable men, men who want to assist you in your struggle. By the end of the month, we can turn the tide of this crisis in your favor and we can start to re-build the Congo.”

Lumumba's eyes glazed over, almost as if he was in the depths of a dream. Then he turned his gaze to Marquez. “You are very persuasive, LeClerc. I will think on your proposal, Monsieur. Kivwa will be in touch. Thank you for your time.”

* * *

Marquez spent the next few days waiting, sweating and drinking. It was the way the game was played. You weren't paid for the final action; you were paid for waiting around for your contact to get in touch.

It was more tiring than actually killing the target. He just hoped he'd done enough and that his story, while not believed totally, was at least plausible enough to keep the target interested.

He stayed close to his hotel in case an emergency message came through from Lumumba's people. He ventured to the bar and ate in the restaurant, but didn't come into contact with the little Austrian spy. At this point in the proceedings, Marquez imagined that this was a good sign. The last thing he needed this deep into an operation like this was a rival spy, poking his nose around.

* * *

They came for him as he was approaching the Intercontinental. He had been to visit an acquaintance who he had been trying to recruit; a Yugoslav Air-Force pilot who was here teaching the Congolese military how to fly. The meeting had seemed to go well, the pilot had appeared interested in helping and had gladly taken the 'expenses' which had been offered to him. Yes, Donner was sure he would make a good agent for his little 'unit'.

An old, rusty, green-colored camper van pulled up when he was within twenty feet of the door to the foyer. The first he knew of it, was when his arms were pinned from either side by an enormous set of hands; two left, two right. They lifted him off his feet; he barely had time to shout before someone else had grabbed both his legs and he found himself being carried like a rolled up carpet.