The Redaction Chronicles Collection

Chapter 12

“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.”

The Numero Dix“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? r***d 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.”

Give him what he wants, tell him what he wants to hear and then reel him in.“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.

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.

fauxThe 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 f**k, I"m only the goddamned Chief of Station in this cesspit, what do I know?” ranted Deakin.

ourSo 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.

So that"s what has angered him,the fact that his bosses have kept him out of the loop.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.

Were they protectors or prison guards,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.”

A stand for right or wrong,even if it means risking my own life.“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?

What choice do I have,except to put my life in his hands?