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

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