The Redaction Chronicles

Chapter 5-1

“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.”