“How is it on the other islands?” I asked her as we headed back to her place.
“Manila is our richest city. There are some nice places in the Philippines, Boracay Island for example, but that is a resort, of course. Cities on Cebu, Mindanao, Leyte and so forth, are not as nice as Manila. Most people on the islands live in country villages. They are very poor, but life is perhaps better for them than for poor people in the city slums, where there is so much crime. Most Filipinos are poor, and the rich Filipinos live well apart from them. To tell the truth, I am surprised that our poor are interesting to an American investment banker, one who uses a commando gun so deftly. Certainly no rich Filipinos are interested in them.”
*
Back at her place I scrubbed the make-up off my face and resumed my banker costume. Luz at first declined payment for the day, but I insisted, so she computed an amount based on her standard escort rate, pretty reasonable by American standards. She said she wasn’t busy that evening, and she could call it a night off, but I thought not. I’d had enough of Manila for one day, driving around in the humidity. I wanted a quick shower, some fresh clothes and a good night’s sleep. She drove me back to my hotel in the Mercedes. “I hope the day was satisfactory,” she said when we pulled up at the entrance.
“Exactly what I wanted,” I said. “You were an excellent guide.”
“I am so glad you think so. Will I be seeing you again?” she asked with expectant eyes (and what eyes they were!). “There is still paid-for service I haven’t delivered.”
“I haven’t forgotten, Luz. Definitely you’ll be seeing more of me.” I leaned over and gave her a little kiss and a squeeze, and the doorman let me out.
I’d had two looks at Manila, the cheerleader tour, and the reality tour, and very different looks they were. I was already making further plans for Luz. Depending on how the next couple weeks shook out, I might need to visit some of the other islands, in the “reality” format.
*
When I picked up my key at the hotel the clerk plucked a note out of my box. “This man left a number for you to call,” he said. “I think he was a little confused. First he asked to speak with Jake Fonko, but when I told him no one by that name is registered here, he said that he meant Jack Philco, which of course is you.” So I took the telephone number from Mr. Kevin.”
“Thank you,” I said, pocketing the note. “Mr. Fonko works in our office also, and people often get our names confused.” What kind of screwup is this? Didn’t Sonarr put him in the loop?
I called Kevin the next morning. “Jack Philco here. I got your note yesterday when I got back. Some kind of mixup on the names?”
“Hi Mr. Fonko…”
“Philco!” I interjected.
“Right, Philco,” he said. “Sorry about that. Jet lag still has me under its spell. That’s a long flight over. Listen, Todd Sonarr…”
“Do you mean Mr. Gladstone?”
“Yeah, him, that’s right. My slip. I got a package from him today with instructions to forward it to you. When can you pick it up?”
“Sometime this afternoon okay?”
“Yeah, fine. I’m at the U.S. Embassy. The receptionist can direct you. About 2 p.m.? Man, it’s been a long time. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Sure. See you at two.”
That was annoying. He’d been with The Company 10 years now. You’d think he’d know better. No harm done, I hope, but I really didn’t want my real name circulating in the Philippines.
I had a meeting with another Filipino Who Mattered in the morning, who gave me the standard spiel, and then busywork to fill the time until the meeting. The weather was temperate, so I put on my lightest weight suit and for the exercise walked to the Embassy. In short order I was in Kevin’s office. His torso was a little heftier and his face had filled out since our Cambodia foray, but he hadn’t lost the hint of sly “nobody can prove I did it” in his mien. They’d stuck him in small, back-corridor office with a desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet and not much else, especially not a window. He rose to greet me with enthusiasm. “Sorry about the phone slip-ups,” he said, putting out his hand. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again ever since those days, Jake … is it okay if I call you Jake?”
“No. Here I’m Jack, and let’s keep it that way, just for the sake of drill.”
“Right, Jack. I’m still Kevin. They didn’t give me a code name for this op. In fact I’m not clear on the op. Todd … Mr. Gladstone … shipped me out here on short notice as back-up and/or liaison for some project you’re doing. Now that I’m here, I suppose I’ll get mission specifics?”
“I’m not clear on those myself, Kevin. Until I am, there’s not much I can tell you. Gladstone didn’t brief you, then?”
KEVIN BLANK’S STORY
“Not much. He wanted someone on the ground for you, and I was the man most available. Plus we’d worked together before. So I’m officially here as a consultant on rice agriculture—your old Cambodian scam, ha ha. But unofficially I’m going to have to make myself look busy until the situation clarifies. Maybe I’ll waste some of their time at the Rice Institute in Los Banos, see what’s shaking with rice these days. You don’t happen to be in the market for a sidekick, do you?”
“No, I work alone,” I said. “For the time being, I’m an investment banker, and as far as I know, they don’t have sidekicks. I’ll keep you in mind if I need a wingman. What have you been up to since Cambodia?”
“After the Khmer Rouge rolled the place up, Todd Sonarr took me back to Langley and put me through a training program. He must have told you how he found me—sprung me out of a Phnom Penh jail after a buddy and I hijacked a munitions ship. Saved my life, literally. I’d not have lasted 10 minutes after the Reds overran the place. I thought the CIA would be a good fit—you know, dirty tricks, covert ops—but the reality wasn’t what I’d imagined. In the aftermath of Nam no high adventure—mostly it was paperwork, scaling back and staying out of the public eye, thanks to the Church committee. Of course my only qualification for field ops was that ship caper, and that was nothing professional, just a prank. Up until then I’d been an idealistic, overeducated hippie bum. I’ve been getting along and biding my time, hoping a career-mover will come along, maybe something to do with these terrorist air liner hijackings—they just clouted one in Athens. They assigned me to the field a couple times, minor roles in Honduras and Nicaragua. Just as well I didn’t get too involved down there—that’s going to be trouble when the word on the arms deals leaks out. I did a hitch in Lebanon, and what a mess that place is, spent some time in the West Berlin station. But mostly I read stuff, write stuff, talk about stuff and weight down a desk chair so it doesn’t float away. Not like you. Sonarr updates me on your exploits from time to time. Man, you’re living the life—Malibu pad, Corvette, working for the Shah.”
“He keeps track of me?”
“He keeps track of a lot of things. That man is an operator’s operator, in an arena pitting him against some of the best.”
“Kevin, I wish I could assign you some exciting deeds to accomplish, but I’m spinning wheels myself so far. It looks like the situation is hotting up with this election, but for the time being, find some good books and don’t wander around drunk in dark streets, is my advice while you’re in Manila. You said a package had come for me?”
“Got it right here.” He reached into a desk drawer and came up with a bulging government envelope. “There’s no security designation on it, so I took a look, thinking I might get a leg up on the situation. Seems to be economic reports, pretty dry stuff.”
Reading my mail? “That’s what I asked for. I’m here as an investment banker, and it’s the kind of information I need to support my cover. It’s dry stuff all right, but I’m finding interesting things in it. Kevin, one thing you can do for me right now is, find out what you can about the upcoming election. Use y
our cover to contact officials. Sound out people you bump into, but exercise caution—Marcos has secret police. If you run across anything out of the ordinary, contact me immediately. Otherwise, I’ll touch base with you from time to time, and I’ll sure let you know when I need your help.”
“I hope so. I’m getting tired of spinning my wheels, which has been my lot for the last 10 years.”
“Always look on the sunny side,” I said. “Okay, I need to get into these reports. Good seeing you again, Kevin. And remember, I’m Jack Philco until further notice.”
Too bad Sonarr didn’t give him something useful to do. Looking for excitement in Manila could be dangerous for an unwary man alone, and idle hands are ever the devil’s workshop. Lord knows it was challenge enough to fill my own days in plausible ways. A genuine investment banker would in three weeks have gathered enough intel to make recommendations, but I had to string out my act in Manila until the election, two months away.
Whose date Ferdinand extended. January 17, it turned out, allowed too little time to prepare ballots and organize polling all over the islands, so he put it off until February 7. I followed the election news: minor opposition politicians declared their candidacies; speeches were made; issues were raised; government grants were suddenly allocated; big contracts were awarded; major public works projects were announced with great fanfare; cheer-led Marcos rallies were held; conscripted school moppets sang patriotic songs—and every once in a while someone was mysteriously beaten up, jailed on dubious pretexts or found dead. I continued conducting pointless interviews, and I worked over the figures in the CIA reports Sonarr sent me. There were major chasms between the Philippine data and the CIA data, but one pattern stayed solid: a lot of money went unaccounted for over the years.
On December 2 the inquiries into the August 21, 1983, assassination of Benigno Aquino concluded. Their conclusion: General Ver and the rest of the military were innocent of any involvement. Whereupon President Marcos reinstated General Ver as his Chief of Staff.
And on December 3, Benigno Aquino’s widow, Corazon Aquino, declared her candidacy for President of the Philippines.
The Fourth Part of the Story
General Ver’s acquittal set Manila abuzz, and Corazon Aquino’s announcement touched the place off. Prior to that several opposition candidates had declared candidacies and launched plodding, demoralized campaigns. Cory, as they called her, ignited electricity and excitement. Her husband had been a popular Filipino figure, and his murder still inflamed popular passion. Posters popped up on walls all over Manila, demonstrations and rallies raged, and the place erupted with enthusiastic conjecture and speculation. She was headlined in the opposition press but downplayed in the pro-Marcos ones. This certainly bore on my mission, but how I couldn’t say, because I still didn’t know what my mission was supposed to be.
A couple days later my phone rang, Stokes Gladstone calling from New York. “How’s it going, Jack?” he asked.
“Tops, Stokes,” I said. “I’m getting the picture, filling in the details and awaiting further instructions.”
“Good. Listen, we’ve a big venture brewing with the Development Bank of Singapore, and we need you there for some crucial meetings, post haste. Fly to Singapore on Sunday, bring your sharpest pencil, and plan to stay for a week. You’re booked at the Shangri La Hotel. I’ll brief you on the situation when you arrive, and you can hit the ground running bright and early Monday morning. Okay? Gotta ring off now. See you in Singapore.”
Now what?
I cancelled appointments and other business I’d arranged for next week, sent a note to Kevin that I’d be going out of town, and reserved a seat first class on Singapore Airlines (nothing but the best for us investment bankers, don’t you know). That call came just at the right time—I badly needed a break from Manila, and my cover act was wearing on me. Living a fake life takes a lot of psychic energy, even when it’s your job. A thousand miles away I could unwind a little.
It was my first landing at the new Changi Airport, an eye-opener. Singapore had gone all out to create one of the grandest air terminals in the world. Spacious, elegant and meticulously maintained, it blossomed with planters of live orchids and offered the kinds of shops, restaurants and amenities any weary traveler might desire, including an incoming duty-free shop swarmed by returning Singaporeans (when I saw booze prices in town, I understood). Most important, it through-putted travel-befuddled crowds more efficiently than DisneyWorld ever dreamed of. In no time at all a cab from the orderly taxi queue, a new Japanese make, whizzed me to the Shangri La over clean, modern roads. Singapore cab drivers don’t run scams on the tourists, they don’t play loud music on the radio, nor do they expect tips. Very refreshing after a month in the Philippines.
The Shangri La Hotel was Singapore’s best (at that time—since then some amazing ones have gone up). Modern towers loomed over a traditional, lush tropical garden accented by the two-dimensional travelers palms unique to that region. A note from Stokes Gladstone graced my box when I checked in. Once settled, I rang his room—no answer. For the sake of stretching my legs I explored my new habitat. Couldn’t ask for better. I wandered out the front portal and down the drive to the street. Cars, new Japanese makes mixed with BMWs and Mercs, flowed by. No poor people were in sight. Nor did I see a single scrap of litter in the street.
I should explain about Singapore. If all you know about it is what you read in American newspapers, you may be worse than simply ignorant, you may be disinformed. The Singapore government, very conservative and upright, has never bent in the slightest toward American left-liberal political conceits. The New York Times and other media that follow its lead (most mainstream papers, magazines and networks) return the favor by printing mostly lies about the place. Contrary to what you may have read or seen, Singapore is not a police state, not even close. It is an island off the southern tip of the Malay Peninsula with an area and population about that of the city of Chicago. An orderly little pocket of prosperity peopled predominantly by Chinese, Singapore sits hemmed in by two countries—Malaysia and Indonesia—whose natives feel no fondness for Chinese, something to do with their work ethic and resulting success.
Various surveys and ratings peg Singapore as having one of the least corrupt governments in the world, as well as one of the freest economies, with a crime rate next to nothing. It’s one of the world’s busiest ports, with the world’s best airline. It stands as a tribute to traditions laid down by the British Empire in the 18th and 19th centuries. Few other colonial powers left success stories behind them, but Britain’s former colonies include Singapore, Australia, New Zealand, Canada and, oh yes, the U.S. of A. Don’t even think about doing drugs, tagging a wall or dropping litter on the street in Singapore, but otherwise you’re good to go anywhere, at any time, in perfect safety. But not in perfect comfort. It lies just above the Equator, and while the surrounding seas forestall a sauna bath climate, the humidity rarely flags, nor are many days spared rain somewhere on the island.
Todd Sonarr and I crossed paths when I returned to the lobby and he emerged from the bar togged out in tropical casual wear. “What say, Jake?” he greeted me. “Great place, hey? It’s on track to become the most modern city in the world. Gives me hope for Asia, eventually.”
“What I’ve seen is an improvement over Manila, that’s for sure,” I said. “What’s going on? Did something come up?”
“Giving you a break. I know the strain of living a cover identity, so I got you off the stage for a week. It’ll boost your cred, too—doing investment banking in Singapore, where a lot of the Asia action happens these days.”
“I sure appreciate the break. Those interviews are getting harder to sit through sounding like I know what I’m doing, and I think their Minister of Defense saw through my cover.”
“Enrile? Don’t worry about him. He’s his own man. Jake, we have some business to talk over, but take this as a well-deserved
week of R and R, and I’ll leave you alone to enjoy it. What do you want to do right now? Get a drink? Go for a bite to eat? It’s a little late in the day for tourist attractions, and the weather won’t suit for a long stroll around town for a few hours. Ever had a Singapore Sling?”
“Nope.”
“Let me welcome you to Singapore, then. It’s the first punch in your tourist ticket. Umm, no pun intended.” And he guided me to the bar. As alcoholic beverages go, a Singapore Sling rates a step above a Shirley Temple. It’s a sweet-sour fruit cooler with some gin in it, refreshing on a hot day, which I guess was the original idea. Sonarr had a double Glenfiddich.
Over our drinks I described what I’d been doing and Sonarr seemed satisfied. “You should have stayed with the movies, the way you carry out these roles. I like your economic analysis. Have you come up with any explanation for the gaps?”
“Marcos and his cronies must be siphoning some off, but still there’s a lot of dough that’s gone wandering. Sloppy accounting? Mismanagement? Inflated bidding and kickbacks? Why on earth does the CIA want to keep this bunch of crooks in power here?”
“We know they’re crooks. But they’re our crooks, as the saying goes—staunch allies, anti-Communists. And those military bases are critical. You really think Marcos has the election fixed?”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 34