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

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