by James Quinn
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.
* * *
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.
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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?
Chapter Six
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 ar
ound 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…”
