A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (7 page)

Donner did what he always did in physical situations like this; he fought back. If he'd had a weapon he would have drawn it, used it and to hell with the consequences. But he didn't and the punch to the stomach took the wind right out of him, but it was the elbow to his temple that not only stunned him, but finished the fight.

Through a haze he heard the roller doors of the camper van slide open and he was thrown deep into the darkness of the van's interior. Then bodies, three, four, five large and strong, piled in and began to handcuff his wrists and ankles.

The doors slid shut and the engine was gunned. He felt the weight of his abductors holding him down until they were satisfied he was secured.

The whole snatch had taken less than a minute, and the
faux
Austrian Franz Donner had, to all intents and purposes, disappeared off the face of the earth.

* * *

The knock at his hotel door came just after he'd returned from his evening meal in the hotel's restaurant. It was Deakin and he looked like a man who had only hours to live. “I've got some news, not much of it good,” he said.

They sat perched on the end of the bed. Marquez poured them both a Cognac and Deakin took a slug and beckoned for a refill. “Okay, I'll speak fast. Time is of the essence here.”

Marquez wondered if things had taken a dramatic turn, possibly even a dangerous turn, and that was why the American was so furious.

“The Austrian that you said tried to recruit you does work for an intelligence service – he works for
our
intelligence service. There's a turf war going on in Langley, between Africa Division and Executive Action and we're caught in the center of it all. Those assholes manning a desk in Langley didn't see fit to let me into the knowledge that I had another operative working on my patch, I mean fuck, I'm only the goddamned Chief of Station in this cesspit, what do I know?” ranted Deakin.

So that's what has angered him,
thought Marquez;
the fact that his bosses have kept him out of the loop.
It was understandable given the circumstances.

Deakin drained his glass and put it rim down, gambler style, on the bedside table. “He's here on a similar mission to yours. Lumumba is his target, same as yours. He's a former French mercenary by the name of David Gioradze. He's wanted for attempted murder, bank robbery and gunrunning. His Agency name is ROGUE.”

“So what's changed?”

“Things have taken a turn and our 'other' agent here Mr. ROGUE, has only gone and gotten himself lifted by the security police. Word is that they don't know who he is, or what he's up to. At least not yet anyway, but knowing the methods that they use here, it won't take long for him to spill.”

“Why did they lift him? What tipped them off?”

“Apparently, my source in the security service says that ROGUE was snitched on by a Yugoslav Air Force pilot who he had attempted to recruit for some kind of intelligence work. Probably something to do with this assassination team he was trying to put together. The guy's a yo-yo and without doubt the worst spy I've ever had the misfortune to come across.”

Marquez thought back to the man's crass attempt to recruit him. No wonder he'd come to the attention of the police.

“It's been told to me in no uncertain terms by the geniuses in Langley that I have to arrange to get him out of jail. I may need your help with this,” said Deakin.

Marquez nodded. “Of course, if I can.”

“We also want to bring the Lumumba thing forward. Forget about the chemical agent, we're trying a different tack. Do you think you could persuade him to leave his compound?”

Marquez frowned. He didn't like it. This operation was fast spiraling down into chaos and he was being asked to do things over and above his original orders. Control of the mission was being lost, fast. He breathed out softly to calm himself. “It is certainly possible. In fact, we have already discussed it at our initial meeting. It will depend on whether he thinks I'm serious or not. Put it this way, luring him out of his residence is a much more viable option than using that ridiculous poisoned toothpaste you gave me.”

Deakin let out a howl of laughter, slapping his knees as if he'd just heard the best joke of his life. “Well now, on that one I grant you, it was a little comedy of errors. Okay, what can we do to make Lumumba bite? What is the one thing that he wants?”

“That's easy. To be taken seriously, to have an influence on the world's stage.”

“And how do we do that?”

“Simple. Give him a signal that an influential politician outside of Africa is keen to meet with him. Someone who is accepted by both sides of the conflict,” suggested Marquez.

“Perfect, that sounds like the final bit of bait to get him to leave the safety of his compound. A personal letter should do it, signed by the man in question. I have a very good forger on staff who should be able to rig something up.”

“And then?”

“And then he's fair game. Shot while trying to escape in the time honored tradition of escaped prisoners the world over. You lure him out, isolate him and then hand him over to Mobutu's men. Job done.”

Marquez thought it over. It could work, but he still had the thorny issue of the 'other' CIA agent, languishing somewhere in a prison cell. Despite his misgivings about – what was his name? Gioradze, that was it. As a spy, Marquez actually liked and admired the gutsy little fighter. “Okay,” he said, “but I have some suggestions first, conditions, to be more precise.”

“Alright, shoot,” said Deakin, who found the idea of an agent telling his case officer how to run an operation almost comical.

Marquez spoke for five minutes without interruption and laid out a plan that would ensure that their erstwhile colleague, the other agent known as ROGUE was freed and the Lumumba situation was brought to a swift conclusion, and all for a fraction of their operating budget.

“It's good, I like it,” said Deakin. “It covers all our bases, gets our man out and finishes the target off. Plus, we also get to send a little warning signal to the security police, let them know who the boss is here.”

* * *

That same night, in a different part of Leopoldville, former Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba was taking an evening stroll in the gardens of the official residence.

He enjoyed these nocturnal moments of solitude, listening to the night's insects and animals vocalizing their existence. It gave him time to ponder, calmly and meditatively, on the situation he had found himself in. He looked over at the United Nations troops who were on permanent watch outside the property.
Were they protectors or prison guards,
he sometimes wondered.

One thing he was sure of was that the status quo couldn't continue indefinitely. Somewhere along the line, and sooner rather than later, he would have to decide his own fate and make a stand.
A stand for right or wrong,
he thought,
even if it means risking my own life.
He turned and called back into the residence, shouting the name of his personal assistant. The middle aged aide came running, his hands smoothing out his shirt as if he was on a parade ground. “Oui, Monsieur le Premier Ministre.”

“Cyrille, could you telephone Monsieur Kivwa for me and pass him a message. Tell him to contact the Frenchman. I would like to accept his proposal and meet with his principals.”

Cyrille accepted the message without comment, turned and made his way back inside to complete his errand. Lumumba turned back to the UN guards; they were still there in place, pacing, watching. If this 'escape' plan was to work, he would need to circumvent the soldiers outside the residence. Not only the UN, but also Mobutu's secret police who, he was sure, had the place under surveillance.

Was he sure this was the right thing to do? Perhaps he could make a deal with the others to go into exile and live a happy life with his family?

But Lumumba knew better. That was not the way that rivalries were settled in the Congo. There was no middle ground of exile, only victory or death at the hands of a sword. He just hoped the Frenchman was everything he claimed to be.
What choice do I have,
he thought,
except to put my life in his hands?

The call connected to the Security Police headquarters. A series of clicks as the operators switched the plug from one port to the other, a crackle and then a voiced rumbled, “Hello?”

“This is Deakin, from the American Embassy, can I speak with Major Koroma please?”

“Hello, Mr. Deakin, I am Major Pierre Koroma, how can I help you today?”

“Major I am told that you are the man I should speak to. You can make things happen. I am speaking here on a matter of urgency and discretion. You know which organization I work for, I assume?”

“Of course, Mr. Deakin, we have great respect for your organization,” said Koroma smoothly.

Yeah, plus you like our money too much,
thought Deakin. “Major, it appears that you have something of ours. One of our people who was, I assume, mistakenly arrested. Your security people obviously didn't know who he was. We would like him back, please.”

Deakin heard Koroma let out a long sigh. “Mr. Deakin this is a very disturbing state of affairs and something that General Mobutu would take very seriously, despite our cordial relations with the American Embassy. We are not keen on foreign agents operating on our soil.”

“Nevertheless, Major, he belongs to us and we would like him returned.”

“Mmm, that is difficult. I am a soldier, Mr. Deakin, I work directly for the General, but those security police animals, whilst being under his control are a law unto themselves. I am not sure how much influence I would be able to have over them,” said Koroma.

Deakin sensed they were about to reach an impasse. He knew the play; every spy, gambler and hard-headed businessman did. They were angling for a deal; it was just a case of what deal they wanted. “Major, can I just cut to the chase. I'm a very busy man, but I think I've found a solution that could benefit everybody.”

“Really?”

Got you,
thought Deakin. He had pricked Major Koroma's interest, now it was time to reel him in. “I can offer you five thousand US dollars for the safe release of our man.” Deakin heard the laugh. In truth, he was expecting it.

“Mr. Deakin, five thousand would not even cover the costs incurred by the security police officials involved, it is—”

“Excuse me, Major, but I had not finished. Thank you. As I was saying, five thousand for the release of the prisoner, plus we are in a position to hand over to you your biggest political rival. I think you know who I mean.”

The silence was palpable. Deakin drummed his fingers on his desk. Come on, come on…

“I know who you mean. But Mr. Deakin, Lumumba is under house arrest. He is already in our custody, of a sort,” said Koroma.

“Major, we have information that suggests he is planning to flee the Prime Minister's residence, make his way to Stanleyville and raise a counter-force.”

There was a moment's silence on the line as Koroma weighed up whether the American was yanking his chain. “So, at last, the snake shows his true colors… treason it is, then.”

“Indeed. However, we have an agent on the ground who can deliver Lumumba directly to you during his 'escape.' ”

“I see, and when is this to happen?” asked Koroma.

“Within the next twenty-four hours. We will take care of all the arrangements. I will telephone you directly with a time and a location for the rendezvous. You, in return, will contact the security unit that has our man in custody and inform them of our deal.”

Koroma pondered this, desperately trying to figure out the angles. Was this American playing him for a fool, or would he get the chance to be part of the capture of a traitor? “And then?” asked Koroma.

“One of our operatives here will hand over Lumumba, directly to you personally. You will give him the location of our imprisoned agent; he will pay the guards directly and retrieve our man.”

It sounded plausible,
thought Koroma. “And we can trust you on this?”

Deakin laughed. “You'll have to. Just wait for my phone call.” He hung up.
Leave them dangling,
he thought to himself,
always leave them dangling.

* * *

On the first day of December, the assassin sat comfortably in the rear of the Lincoln limousine and watched from the window as the streets of Leopoldville passed by.

The man was grey-haired, with a beard to match, and wore a thick pair of spectacles that covered most of his upper face. His suit was tailored and expensive. He had in his pocket a passport that identified him as one Jose Silva, a Portuguese diplomat who was assigned as a liaison official with the United Nations. The other item in his pocket was a signed personal letter to Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba from UN Secretary-General Dag Hammerskjold, stating that he wished his friend well and that he was offering his utmost support, both political and moral, in these difficult times.

Of course the wig, beard and glasses were nothing more than stage make-up supplied by the CIA station officers. The passport and letter were also forged, once again provided by the paper experts of the Agency. Marquez knew that the work which had consumed the last month of his life would be finished within a matter of hours. He had played the game out to its natural conclusion, and barring a few detours along the way, it had pretty much gone according to plan.

They were minutes away now from the Prime Minister's residence and he patted himself down, making sure that everything was in place. He could see the UN soldiers manning the gates and he reached inside his jacket for his passport.

A soldier stepped forward and motioned for the driver to wind down the window. Marquez leaned forward and offered his papers for inspection; the soldier crouched down and peered in, his eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom of the interior. His eyes flicked from the passport to the man sitting in the rear of the car then back to the papers again. He handed the papers back, saluted and waved the car through the main gates. The car drove up to the main entrance and Marquez stepped out to be greeted by Kivwa. They shook hands like old friends.

“Welcome, Senor Silva,” said Kivwa, playing out the charade for the guards to clearly hear. “Come in and have some refreshments, Samuel, go and park the car around the side.”

The two men disappeared inside while the chauffeur reversed the Lincoln and steered it around to the servant's entrance where the car could not be seen. No sooner had the car stopped than Samuel had gotten out and opened the rear passenger door. A figure quickly moved in a crouch from the servants' door to the back seat of the Lincoln, a fleeting glance, no more, and then the door of the car was slammed shut and the figure covered itself with the thick blanket which had been provided. The heat was stifling underneath it, but he knew he only had to endure fifteen minutes or less until his escort was due to exit from the front entrance.

Fifteen minutes later, the Portuguese diplomat shook hands with Patrick Kivwa on the steps of the residence. Underneath his breath Kivwa whispered, “Good luck, just get him out of the damned country and to safety.”

Marquez looked the man in the eye and nodded. Almost there… almost there…

The Lincoln pulled up and Marquez got in. The subterfuge had worked and the limousine ambled calmly past the UN guards manning the compound. “Just keep driving at a steady speed until we are out of sight,” Marquez ordered Samuel. He saw the young man nod his understanding in the rear view mirror.

“Thank you Lucien, your assistance and bravery will not be forgotten in the new democracy,” said Lumumba. The man sighed and relaxed back into the seat, confident he had outwitted his enemies.

“Get some rest Mr. Prime Minister, we have only a short drive to the escape plane,” reassured Marquez, as he began to remove the glasses, wig and false beard glued to his face.

The drive continued out of the city for a further half an hour with bright streets giving way to dark roads.
The time was nearly right,
thought Marquez,
only a few more moments to the rendezvous.
He was aware of Lumumba speaking to him again. The time for the charade to end was nigh.

“What will you do once I am in Paris, Lucien, will you perhaps visit or be a part of…”

In one swift movement Marquez had grabbed Lumumba's head and was forcing it down to the floor with one hand while with the other he pulled out the Colt.45, pressing it to the man's temple. “Down, down…down on the floor! Try to fight and I will shoot! Get DOWN! Quiet!”

Lumumba was no fool and knew better than to argue with an armed man. He slumped into a sullen silence.

“Keep driving for another half a mile, you'll come to a fork in the road. That's the rendezvous; the collection party will be waiting for us,” Marquez ordered Samuel. The driver, to his credit, kept calm and guided the car along the dirt track for another few minutes. Then slowly from out of the darkness the silhouette of several military jeeps and wagons began to appear. They flashed their lights in recognition and the driver of the limousine beeped his horn to complete the code.

The limousine slowly pulled to a halt, the driver aware of the soldiers with their fingers on the triggers of their weapons. A man stepped forward, large, in command, his outline cast against the glare of the truck's headlights.

“I am Major Pierre Koroma.” His voice was a deep basso and rumbled. He stood composed and confident; one hand wavering near the pistol he wore on his hip. He was military, through and through.

The door of the limousine opened and Marquez dragged out the terrified Lumumba, the gun still pressed against his temple, and forced him onto his knees between the two groups.

“Hello, Patrice,” said the man and then waved a hand for unseen shadows to take the deposed Prime Minister away. Marquez stepped back as the guards grabbed the fallen man. He didn't even look at the doomed prisoner. For Marquez, the target was now a thing of the past, a burden he had put aside.

“I have been asked to pass on our thanks on behalf of General Mobutu,” said Koroma.

“Thank you.”

“The General says that he is in your debt for this service. He says if there is anything he can do for you in the future, he will consider it an honor to help.”

The noise of a scuffle broke out from the rear of the trucks. Marquez assumed that the ANC soldiers were having fun with the deposed politician, fun involving punches, kicks and rifle butts no doubt. Marquez turned back to Koroma. “I will remember the General's kind words. It is always useful to have a patron as wise and powerful as the General. I thank him.”

Koroma nodded. It was good that this foreign spy should show proper respect to the General. “That is good. I also have the other piece of information that you wanted, about the kidnapping of your 'friend'. ”

“Yes?”

“He is being held in a warehouse out near Panza. It is a private place which belongs to the security police. He has been there for days. If you go there now, they will be told you are expected so that you can collect him.” Koroma handed Marquez a slip of paper with the address.

“Thank you, Major.”

“Our friends in the Security Police will also be expecting the agreed sum for the release of your friend.”

“That is understood Major. I have the funds, five thousand dollars.”

“Excellent,” said Koroma happily. “Then our business is complete.”

The man stalked back to his jeep, issuing orders as he went. The engines of the convoy rumbled into life and within seconds the trucks and jeeps were a distant light down the dirt road.

Marquez stood for a moment, breathed, and took in the coolness and tranquility of the night.
The first job of the night complete,
he thought,
now for the rest of his chores.
He walked around to the driver's window and motioned for him to open the window. “Samuel, are you alright?”

The driver nodded, but Marquez could see his hands were shaking. He gripped the steering wheel fiercely, trying to halt the tremors. Marquez opened the door and eased him out, leaning the traumatized man against the side of the vehicle. “Relax, it is over now. You have earned your money. You would be better if you forgot everything that you saw here tonight. Come, let me give you a cigarette. Let me get my pack from the back seat.”

The shot, when it came, shattered the night air; the sounds of the wilderness taking flight and the echoing report of the.45 caliber bullet. The sound of the body hitting the dirt at full force was negligible. Marquez stood and looked down at the body for a moment. The bullet had exploded right in the driver's eye, taking away a section of his head. Marquez moved quickly, grabbing the dead man's heels, dragging him out into the scrubland and concealing the body behind a small clump of bushes. It might take weeks before the corpse was discovered and once the wildlife and desert dogs had their fill of the flesh, identification might take even longer.

* * *

David Gioradze, the spy who had been operating under the pseudonym of the Austrian Franz Donner, had been sitting handcuffed to the uneven iron chair for the past five hours.

The rusty metal of the handcuffs had worn away the skin around his wrists and the thick black hood that covered his entire head was saturated with sweat. The sweat wasn't from the temperature, but from the sheer physical effort of keeping his body under control.

He was naked, freezing cold and bruised along the full length of his torso. He prayed they would kill him soon. His only escape from the torture, discomfort, and pain was the refuge of his own mind.

Hide David,
his mama would have said.
Hide and you'll be fine.
He had learned that trick well as a child when his father would come home after a meeting with the émigré group he was a part of in Paris. His father, a man with a short fuse of a temper, had taken badly to being an exile in a country which he despised. The émigrés would meet once a week in a small bar in Montmartre and the talk and the wine would flow, so that by the end of their 'political meeting' they would be fired up with patriotism, revenge, hare-brained schemes, and cheap vodka.

By the time his father had made it home, his temper had been at boiling point and the likely target for his temper and frustration was his wife. “Hide David, papa will be home soon,” was the usual routine, and always followed by the reminder to, “Whatever you do stay in your room, don't look and cover your ears. Papa is tired, that's all it is, emotional and tired.”