The Redaction Chronicles

Chapter 4-2

Marquez gave him the name of his hotel and the direct number to his room.

“I will contact you when I have spoken to Lumumba, but I have to tell you honestly that I think you are wasting your time,” said Kivwa.

* * *

Marquez had no choice but to return to his hotel and wait. He checked his watch, discovering it was sundown. Time for a drink, he thought. He turned around and headed straight for the bar, a group of journalists checking in at reception. They looked like modern-day versions of colonial adventurers, coming to take the Dark Continent by storm, except this time, instead of rifles they were armed only with cameras and tripods.

Time for a drinkThe bar was quiet and wouldn"t start to fill up for another half an hour. He pulled up one of the stools and leaned forward against the bar. The barman made his way over, a glass already in his hand. “Mon Dieu, I need a drink, a large one, a Ricard. It"s been a hell of a day,” said Marquez.

“Make that two,” a voice said from behind him.

Marquez turned and looked down to find a small bullet of a man, beaming a huge smile in his direction. He looked him over with a closer eye. There was something not quite right about the man"s appearance; it was like trying to decipher an optical illusion.

The man was dressed in a summer business suit, the type that seemed to be so fashionable these days, and he had a thin narrow nose and suntanned features. Marquez would have described him as ordinary and peasant-like. But there were two things which set him apart, that didn"t quite fit. First was the hair. It was obviously a toupee, an excellent one certainly, you could hardly see the join, but still a hairpiece – of that there was no doubt. Secondly was the scar that ran the length of his cheek. No accident, a scar like that, in that location it could only have come from being cut with a knife. A duel or a fight, perhaps? Marquez wondered who had won the encounter; the unknown knifer or this tough-looking European.

“You are new in town,” said Scarface.

“A few days ago. I"m Lucien LeClerc.”

“Franz Donner,” said the man, holding out his hand.

“German?”

“Austrian, but it amounts to the same thing these days to most people. What are you doing here in Leopoldville? Business or pleasure?”

Marquez laughed. “I wouldn"t have thought there was much pleasure to be had in the Congo"s current state. Business. The company I work for is trying to cut a deal with the Government. We sell farm equipment.”

The little Austrian laughed. “Whoa, there"s no money in that around here my friend. Jules, two more drinks here, we"re both dry as the scrubland.” The last was directed to the bartender, who swiftly brought them two beers. The Austrian settled himself into the chair next to his new friend. “Now, the big money in this part of the world is in arms and ammunition. If you can supply those, you can make a killing in a place like this. No pun intended.”

“Is that what you do here? Gunrunning?”

Donner shook his head and smiled. “Not at all, I"m new here myself. I"ve only been here a few weeks. I run a small shop in town, selling cameras and photographic equipment. I get a lot of business from journalists.”

Marquez nodded, more out of politeness than appreciation of the man"s business acumen. On the whole it seemed a strange place to open up a new business for a European, but in his time he had met all kinds of strange people, with even stranger ideas. They chatted for another hour, each giving a somewhat sparse account of themselves. They were both of a certain type; adventurers, players of a great game, eager to make a difference, but both motivated by money. Mercenaries. Well dressed and cultured certainly, but mercenaries all the same, if only of the commercial type.

“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 c****d 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.”

Maybe this conversation with the Austrian might prove useful,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.”

mon ami“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?”

Numero DixMarquez 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.

Numero Dix“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 p*****t 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.”

whoDonner 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.