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

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.”
    “Ha, oh, so easy for you,” mocked Lumumba. Then his face set in stone as his mind turned to the serious business of money and what it could achieve. “And of the Congo's natural resources, what of them? Raped and pillaged, no doubt.”
    Marquez shook his head.
Give him what he wants, tell him what he wants to hear and then reel him in.
“No. Businessmen and corporations are there for a profit certainly, but we are not governments and politicians who want to control and decimate. We would want the vast majority of the Congo's resources to be used to benefit the peoples of this nation; the money that my investors would make would be marginal by comparison. We are not the Belgian's after all; we are pragmatists and humanists.”
    “But where is the profit for them in that!”
    “Monsieur, even a small percentage of profits can be worth billions to the right people. We can supply engineers, surveyors; public relations people, a whole range of assistants who can make the Congo a stable proposition with Patrice Lumumba guiding his people. Imagine returning Katanga and South Kasai back into the fold of the Republic.”
    “It sounds almost too good to be true,” said Lumumba.
    “It could happen. I can get you to Stanleyville within twenty-four hours. By the end of the week, you can be in a safe European country, meeting with the consortium that I represent; serious men, practicable men, men who want to assist you in your struggle. By the end of the month, we can turn the tide of this crisis in your favor and we can start to re-build the Congo.”
    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