A Game For Assassins

Chapter Four

Chapter FourLeopoldville, Republic of the Congo – November 1960

The CIA agent QJ/WIN had arrived in Leopoldville operating under the name of Lucien LeClerc. His cover was that of a French businessman from Marseilles, who was looking to import agricultural machinery from Europe in order to assist the Congolese economy. His travel papers were valid for the next three months and in that time, he was expected to travel across the region, visiting businessmen, government ministers and local political leaders. In truth, he had no intention whatsoever of doing any of this. His real mission was much more interesting.

He had first been recruited in the late 1950's, following a successful career as a smuggler. Two large Americans had visited him at his apartment one evening with an interesting proposition. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with us. I'm Frank and this is Tony,” said the larger and meatier-faced of the two. “I'm the guy fighting the Commies; Tony here is fighting the d**g war. We have a proposal for you.”

It had started from there. Because of his underworld contacts across Europe, especially with the Corsican and Sicilian d**g gangs, he had been an excellent agent to infiltrate himself into a network involving Chinese Communist h****n that was being given freely with the clear understanding that it must be flooded into the United States. As an Agent Provocateur, Marquez had been exceptional. He had bought his way into the deal using American funds and had arranged for collection points and private transport en route. Of course it had all been a ruse and on a given date, the shipments had been intercepted by the US Coast Guard, but more importantly several of the main arterial routes into the USA had been compromised, with several others being placed under surveillance.

Following the counter-narcotics operation, he had been approached six months later and met with an overweight, almost obese CIA man in Rome. The man looked like a disheveled drunk, but he had a confidence and swagger about him that hinted at hidden resources and tenacity. “Call me Bill,” the CIA man had said as they dined on seafood at the Restaurant Villa Venezia, a small, family run place a stone's throw from the Vatican.

“I liked what you did for us against those Chinese commies, nice work. I'd also like to thank you for some of the potential agents you've talent spotted for us. I'm in charge of a new outfit. We deal with Executive Action, which is a bullshit euphemism for getting our hands dirty in covert operations. I think you're the type of guy that we'd like to have working with us.”

Marquez had been put on the payroll, a nice monthly retainer and all he had to do was establish enough cover to be classed as deniable to the overt world. The Congo operation was his first mission and although he was listed as an Executive Action department agent, he would in truth be seconded to the CIA's Africa Division for the duration of the project.

The ride from the airport into Leopoldville had brought back old memories of his time in Africa, not here in the Congo, where he was unknown, but in other regions of the Dark Continent; Chad, Nigeria, Algeria, Dakar. The smell, the noise, the heat; all gave Africa its own unique pulse. The drive through the streets did nothing to dispel any of these sensations and also confirmed what he had already been told by the CIA; the Congo was sliding slowly into a whirlwind of chaos and feudal fighting with the military on the streets and militias in the back rooms.

Marquez had booked himself into the Intercontinental Hotel, a large, high-rise slab of concrete in the center of the city. It was the hotel of choice for businessmen, journalists and visiting VIP's. He left his suitcase in the room and immediately ordered a taxi from the hotel reception. His first port of call was to be his briefing with the CIA station chief, Deakin. The venue was a one-bedroom apartment in Binza, a suburb of Leopoldville and one of the many safe-houses the Agency kept for covert meetings. The knock on the door and code phrase gained him entrance to the inner sanctum of the safe-house.

“You clean? No surveillance on you, they're pretty easy to spot. They trail around together like a bunch of virgins at a frat party.” Deakin was the archetypical CIA case officer thought Marquez, young, sleek and a smooth operator. They made themselves comfortable with Deakin playing the host and pouring the drinks; coffee, black and strong.

“So, Langley wants me to give you the edited version of events here and then brief you on your mission while you're in country.” Deakin lit a Camel cigarette and relaxed back into his chair, readying himself to deliver the intelligence briefing.

“What we have here in the RC is a four-act play with the main power players – Kalonji, Lumumba, Tshombe and Mobutu – all ready to slit each other's throats to gain the high seat. Mobutu rules here in Leopoldville, Kalonji has South Kasai, Tshombe has control of the mining franchise in Katanga and is backed by the Belgians and their mercenaries, and finally, there is Lumumba and his clique who have set up an enclave in Stanleyville. We have tribal, financial and political factions, all armed and all willing to take the country to the brink of chaos in order to get what they want. You with me so far?”

“Of course,” said Marquez. “Although it sounds like most African 'democracies' these days.”

“It is, you're absolutely right, but it's our job to ensure that as few countries as possible don't topple to the commies and the word from high command in Washington is that the Republic of the Congo is to be saved at all costs, even if that means rescuing it from itself. Since the summer, Washington has been in a tailspin about how to go about securing this country. The main threat for the USA and the West comes from Lumumba. He seems to have communist backing and the theory is that if he continues to hold high office, it will pave the way for a Communist takeover. The Agency cannot allow that to happen.”

“Which is where I come in,” prompted Marquez.

“That's right. We want you to see if it's possible to penetrate Lumumba's entourage. We've tried to deal with him over the past few months; negotiation, bribes, political concessions, but it seems he's either very much his own man or is in the back pocket of Moscow. We have our sights on the Chief of the Army, Mobutu. Washington thinks he is a man we can work with. Lumumba needs to be removed, to give Mobutu a clear run.”

“So, the rapier rather than the Claymore for this operation?” asked Marquez.

“Yes, a subtle approach is always preferable. We want you to get under his skin, gain his trust and then we can see about removing him.”

“And this is sanctioned by Washington?” Marquez didn't want to be left out in the cold if the operation went sour.

“The best I can tell you is that this operation is officially unofficial. Don't worry about it yet; just get close to the target first.”

Marquez noted Deakin's pause and his non-committal reply. Was the CIA man not giving him the whole picture, perhaps retaining some operational piece of information? Spies! Who knew how their little minds worked? “Alright, where do I start?”

“There is a man who works for Lumumba, name of Patrick Kivwa, a political fixer and lawyer here in Leopoldville; he transcends the Congolese players and the Europeans. He handles the money and arranges meetings. We have heard that they are in need of financial support, after all counter-coups don't come cheap. They certainly wouldn't entertain an approach from an American businessman looking to bring wealth into the country. We rather screwed up our pitch there.”

“But a French citizen looking to trade with a new government… yes, I see. Very good, I like it,” said Marquez.

“Exactly,” said Deakin. “Langley says we can have up $100,000 to get them interested and get an asset inside. So that's your start point.”

“And once either I or a sub-agent can gain access to Lumumba, then what?”

“Kill him. No f*****g about. Langley and Washington may dress it up with all kinds of euphemisms, but the short version is we want him dead.”

“Silenced pistol. Explosion, what?” asked Marquez, eager to work out how he would be able to do it.

“Again, something subtler is in order. We have at our disposal a chemical agent that we would like you, or your nominee, to administer. The toxin is designed to be administered to Lumumba orally through food, perhaps at a dinner party.”

Ah, thought Marquez, poison. The oldest of the assassin tricks.

* * *

Marquez had to wait three days before he could hold his initial meeting with Lumumba's man. Deakin had given him a contact number and told him to call at a certain time of day. The man who answered the phone spoke in a high pitched, excitable whine. Marquez introduced himself by his cover name of LeClerc and gave an outline of his proposal.

“Mmm, come to my office later today. We can talk in more detail face-to-face,” said Kivwa.

Kivwa's office was on the second floor of a commercial block in the business district. The office looked out onto a street filled with cafes and taxi cabs; the canopy of the building was shielding them from the worst of the sun. The man himself was a giant, whose physical dimensions were only just being held in check by a tailored, three-piece suit. He was greying and weary.

“So, you French want to take over our country, is that it? You have more colonial aspirations, Monsieur LeClerc. Agricultural machinery! Do you expect me to believe that?”

Marquez held up his hands in mock surrender. In order to gain access to this man's principal, he felt it best to be honest with the Congolese lawyer, or as honest as his cover story would allow him to be. “It is true, I did use that story in order to gain some credibility and to get you to meet with me. I also represent interests in European banking who are keen to assist with the mining and development of minerals included; copper, gold and diamonds. I have been authorized to make a proposal to your principal.”

Kivwa laughed. “But you are already too late my friend, Tshombe and his Belgian dogs already have that market under control.”

Marquez nodded in understanding. “My people in Europe believe that Patrice Lumumba would be a much better option for everyone concerned. We believe that he is a man who could unite the country and bring back stability.”

Kivwa moved the papers on his desk to one side and leaned forward to make his point. “My friend, Lumumba is for all purposes, a hunted man. He cannot move freely without risk to himself. He is currently under house arrest. Where would he go and how would he get there?”

“I have the authority from my patrons to offer him protection in Europe as a guest; we can guarantee it.” Marquez watched Kivwa closely. The man was unsure how to react. Perhaps his pitch had come in too sharply, too sudden?

“Umm… I do not know about this. I will need to consult directly with Lumumba. Where can I contact you?”

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.

The 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.”

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 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.”

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.