Free A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) by James Quinn Page A

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