Now, when the once-beautiful woman is 20 years past her prime, in addition is a raging control freak, and on top of that is white hot irate … you can imagine what confronted me when my three thugs frog-marched me into Imelda Marcos’s livid presence.
“Mr. Philco,” she screeched. “I demand to know what the hell is going on here!”
“I’d like to know the same thing myself,” I countered. “These goons dragged me out of the Manila Hotel before I even had breakfast. What’s the big idea?”
“These goons are my brother, Kokoy, and some of his assistants. I dispatched them to bring you in to answer some very serious questions.”
“And these questions are …?”
“Just exactly what is your mission here in the Philippines?”
“Investigating the possibilities of a loan to your government, as I’ve said all along.”
“So you said, but it was a lie all along. You were sent here by the CIA, and I want to know why.”
Oops! “That’s preposterous. Wherever did you get that idea?”
“From a source in the CIA, that’s where.”
“He’s an imposter.”
“I don’t think so. He told me you were here to assist us with the election, as if we need any help! Listen, Mr. Jack Philco or whatever your real name is—your purpose for being here is of little importance, I just don’t like being deceived by people who come here under false pretenses. Frankly, I’d rather you were truly here to make us a loan. We need the money more than we need CIA meddling. The CIA shoveled millions of dollars into the 1984 elections to subvert us, and the opposition beat my party by 14 to 7 in my own district. To help my party I even resigned from the Executive Committee, since everybody hated me when I had to hold things together after the unfortunate assassination. The CIA stuck their oar in, as they so often do, and cheated the people’s will.
“So you tell your CIA bosses to stay out of this election. We do not need their help, if that is their aim. And if they are thinking of backing the opposition, tell them we will crush Mrs. Corazon Aquino, no matter what the CIA does. No one will vote for her, because she does not understand Filipino femininity. What our people want in a woman is beauty and a feeling of love, and that pathetic little mouse has no understanding of either beauty or of love. Have you seen her, for goodness sake? She’s just a crude little woman without makeup or manicure. At least she ought to wear contact lenses! What experience has she had in politics, or government, any kind of experience? How could anyone vote for her, when she is neither beautiful nor competent? Ferdinand will win in a landslide, because Filipinos want to be ruled by a strongman, not by some owl-faced little mouse!
“And I’ll tell you another thing. Benigno Aquino’s wealthy father, the sugar cane king, was executed after the war. And do you know why? He was convicted of treason, because while Ferdinand and Romulo and other heroes were suffering in the jungle and fighting for Filipino freedom, he collaborated with the Japs. So all these people are raising a fuss about the son of a proven traitor who got what he deserved, and on top of that fussing about his ugly wife!
“Mr. Philco, you are no longer of any interest to us. Stay away from me and Ferdinand, and keep out of our election. If we catch you interfering in any way, you will regret it.” She turned to her brother. “Kokoy, take this lying meddler back where you found him.”
Which they did, with dispatch and none too gently.
I returned to find my room visibly mussed over, though not totally vandalized. I doubt that they found anything incriminating, as the only papers and documents there reflected investment banking and Philippine government propaganda. I couldn’t tell if they’d picked the lock on my Gucci bag. I’d think some of the gear I’d brought might raise suspicions, but everything was still present, even my SIG. The only thing missing from the room was the 22 carat gold jewelry for Mom, Dana and Judy I’d bought in Singapore.
Notwithstanding that it would be late evening in New York, I went straight to a lobby pay phone and dialed up Thermite Holdings. “This is Jack Philco. Put me through to Stokes Gladstone,” I barked.
“Yes sir, Mr. Philco,” the operator said, and it was done.
“Hello, Jack, what’s up?” said Todd Sonarr.
“I thought you were going to alert me before you disclosed my mission to certain parties.”
“So I am. The time hasn’t yet arrived. Why? Something happen?”
“This morning a certain First Lady had her goons haul me to the Palace to chew me out about some preposterous yarn that I’d been sent by the CIA. I cannot imagine who would have spread such a ridiculous rumor.”
“Not me.”
“Who else is party to our business besides you and me?”
“It’s very tightly buttoned up. Just my superior and your contact.”
And the light bulb over my head flashed on! “Okay. I’ll look into that. Now that the situation is out in the open, any change in plans?”
“Steady as she goes, Jack. You’re doing fine. Don’t worry too much about said First Lady. She blames everything that goes wrong on the CIA. Nobody pays any attention to it. I’ll relay any changes in plans to you as they arise. Roger and out.” And he hung up. Changes in plans? What plans?
I next dialed Kevin Blank at the U. S. Embassy and told him to wait right there, that I’d be coming to see him in a few minutes. Then I went into the café and downed the breakfast that Imelda’s brother and his buddies had so rudely interrupted. When I reached his office he was sitting at his skimpy desk pretending to read some policy manual, furtive and visibly agitated.
“Kevin, my man,” I said brightly. “I thought it would be useful to get a briefing from you on what you’ve accomplished since the last time we met.”
“Just what you said, Jack. I went out and talked to people.”
“And how did that go?”
“Pretty well. I found out that most Filipinos don’t like Marcos very much, and since the assassination they’re less afraid to say so.”
“Interesting. So you just talked to people on the street? Develop any good government sources?”
“Well … I struck up a conversation with a Filipino guy in a bar in Ermita. He was well dressed and sounded like he had good connections pretty high up. I thought a little booze might loosen his tongue, so I stood a few rounds, and we hit it off pretty well. When we parted company he said he’d get back to me.”
“Sounds promising. So …?”
“So two days later he phoned me here and said some people in the government would like to talk with me, and he’d send a car. Would you believe it, this Mercedes—not a fucking car pool Ford—came to the Embassy and took me right to Malacanang Palace!”
“Don’t keep me in suspense. He took you in to meet Imelda Marcos?”
“Yes, he did.” Kevin was shifting his eyes rapidly side to side and squirming all the more.
“Okay, Kevin,” I said sternly. “How did she worm it out of you?”
He did some mental shuffles and back-stepping, then he abruptly straightened up in his chair and leaned toward me with a little fire in his eyes. “Jake, let me tell you something. When I met you in Cambodia, you were a hero to me. The things you did—just awesome! I wanted to join The Company and be a spook too, just like you. So I joined The Company, and it’s turned out as boring as it could be. Nine years of pointless meetings, writing reports about nothing, foreign assignments that have me wasting my time trying to get intel out of lying assholes and killing time in two-bit hotels, and all that for a crappy G-10 salary. Meantime you’re getting the Shah out of Iran, having firefights with the Irish Republican Army, busting up a Russian gun-running op, bringing in the Grenada invasion, shooting down a Cuban MIG, all that stuff you do, all the while living in a Malibu beach pad and getting rich in the process. For chrissakes, look at us right here. You’re in a suite in the Manila Hotel wit
h an open tab, and I’m in a three-star on a per diem, having to account for every fucking dime.
“Well, goddammit, there I am in that super palace, talking to one of the richest, most glamorous women in the world. Okay, when I loosened that guy’s tongue, maybe I loosened mine a little too, and said some things out of school, and he passed the word along. Imelda up and offers me half a year’s salary in cash on the spot for what I can tell her about you. So I tell her the CIA sent you to help them win their election, that’s all. I didn’t even blow your cover by telling her your real name. What’s the harm?”
So—now I’m Boris’s goat? “We don’t yet know what’s the harm,” I said. “Some of her goons hauled me in for a grilling while their buddies ransacked my hotel room. Whether there’s more harm coming remains to be seen.”
“What’s she going to do about it? You’re an American citizen with Agency backing. You’re here to help them. Big deal. Nothing the great Jake Fonko can’t deal with.”
“You don’t know the Marcoses,” I said. “Well, the cat’s out of the bag, and I’ll have to deal with it. I’ll pass the word to Langley that I’m not going to be using you for backup any longer, and I’ll let them sort out the rest of it.” With that I got up from my chair and left the room.
I was in a quandary. Todd Sonarr hired me to keep the opposition from stealing the election from Ferdinand Marcos. It was now clear that not only could that not happen, but Marcos was on track to lose the election big time, deservedly, and then steal it himself. I’ve always done my duty, but I had no duty to Ferdinand and Imelda—they were exactly what I’ve always sided against. Nevertheless I’d taken on the mission. I was trembling, because I had to decide between two things, I recognized that. I thought hard for a minute, breath abated, and then decided: All right, then, if it comes to it, I’ll go to Leavenworth.
But maybe I wouldn’t. I wasn’t in the service, so they’d probably send me somewhere else—Allenwood maybe? But the way I’d set the arrangement up, nobody could prove I worked for the CIA, nor did any written mission specs exist, so they couldn’t nail me for dereliction. Maybe nobody would even notice, or if I succeeded maybe they’d seal it away to avoid embarrassment. It was worth the gamble. I’d do what I could to help oust the Marcos regime. First task at hand: with Kevin out of the picture I’d need some other backup, and I wanted the best. I rang up the Intercontinental Hotel on a lobby pay phone to see if Evgeny Grotelov was around.
*
“Too bad I’m not working on commission,” Grotesqcu mused. “Selling Russian vodka in this place is child’s play. I’m doing okay on kickbacks, though—I’ll take home a stash of hard currency. Considering where the KGB was going to send me, I’m sitting pretty here in Manila. I have you to thank for that, of course.” We were sitting under some palms by the Intercontinental Hotel swimming pool having coffee, an innocent meeting of a Russian vodka salesman and an American banker in the interests of fostering international trade.
“What mission did you dodge?” I asked.
“Afghanistan. It’s going crazy there. The goat-fuckers are shooting down our Hinds with American Stinger missiles, quite disrupting our military operations. The ragheads control the mountain passes now, and our escalating losses are starting to cause dissension at home. We may have to throw in the towel, another round lost in the Great Game. Jake, there’s a rumor about that you had something to do with the Stingers.”
“I might have suggested it to somebody a while back.”
“Splendid, splendid. I can take that to the bank. You’re more of a threat to my country than anyone had ever imagined. I’ll use that to justify adding another analyst to my staff. So you’re throwing in with Cory Aquino, you say? What do they call it — ‘going rogue’?”
“Anything to put it to the Marcoses. You must have had some experience with crooked elections, being Russian.”
“Not in Russia. We don’t have elections there, just affirmations. But I’ve meddled here and there in other countries’ elections, yes. Nothing like the situation here. You’re aiming to steal an election from Ferdinand Marcos? I admire your ambition. If you could get control of the polling places, that always helps. The trouble is, there are so many islands. Impossible to organize that. Maybe the New People’s Army?”
“Aren’t they your guys?”
“Hardly. Marcos says they’re Communists, but except for propaganda purposes we wouldn’t touch them wearing hazmat gear. Maybe you can get some of them to mount an insurrection and draw government troops away from snatching ballot boxes, though I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”
“Well, it’s a starting point,” I reflected. “There’s only three weeks until the election, not much time, but if they have forces already in place that could be coordinated, that’s a possibility.”
So I was off to check out the NPA situation on the islands. I figured, considering the tight time frame, I’d do a make it or break it trip to recon a major island and estimate the possibilities. I recalled from Todd Sonarr’s visit in Malibu that Steele Bosserman deemed the NPA a dire threat to Marcos. For all I knew, the New People’s Army was already poised and primed for action all across the archipelago. The problem was, I’d had no experience in political insurgency. The Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols didn’t work with indigs. That was a Green Beret specialty. The CIA did that too, but I wasn’t ever really in the CIA. So I’d need a guide, someone with local savvy that I could trust. Who else but Luz?
Auntie put me in touch with her, and she was willing to take off with me on short notice for a couple days. Next to Luzon, Mindanao is the key Philippine island. Insurrections brewed down there—Muslims, the NPA, pissed-off peons … so maybe I could locate people willing to go up against Marcos. I put on my civvies for the trip and packed along outdoor and night gear, just in case. Luz called ahead to someone she knew who could help us, and we flew to Mindanao the next day. We landed at the Davao airport, a shabby affair emblazoned with Marcos banners and posters, and I let Luz do the talking. She’d dressed down for the trip, just a casual cotton dress, but even so was her usual stunning little self, so we got good service from every male we encountered. The airport cabs made a sorry lineup, and the taxi queue was every man’s elbows for himself. But the jostlers made way for Luz, and we secured one that looked ready for the scrapyard crusher. The driver took us to what passed for the central district of the city using what passed for the scenic route. Davao was the main city on the island, but there was little to recommend it. Marcos banners festooned the streets. Fewer up for Aquino.
First we took rooms in Davao’s best hotel, such as it was. Her friend’s office was in one of the more presentable buildings a few blocks away. He was a local political honcho whom she’d met in Manila—I didn’t inquire in what circumstances, but his eyes certainly lit up when we walked in. Our meeting with him was, from his point of view, disappointingly brief. She explained that we wanted to meet with someone in the New People’s Army. From his matter-of-fact reaction, you’d think people dropping in to find the NPA was a daily occurrence. The NPA wasn’t so much in the city, he explained. The fighters hung out in the hills. He wrote down a name and told her we’d find him in a certain village, in the general store. We returned to the hotel, and I put on some duds suitable for going in-country. At the curb we flagged down a cab. Luz told the driver what we wanted, and he was all for it—bigger business than what usually climbed into his hack, for U.S. dollars. And also it meant Luz would be riding in his cab for a long time.
Outside the city the view improved, though the place would benefit from Adopt-a-Highway. It was my first field trip away from Metro Manila, and what I saw on our flight and on our drive impressed me. Aside from big swaths clear-cut across hillsides by overzealous loggers, the Philippines are beautiful islands. In contrast to the hard-edged, spectacular scenery of the California coast and the Sierras, they enjoy the quiet, serene beauty of tropical Asia—soft r
ain forests, shimmering rice paddies stepping up terraced slopes, tea-colored rivers and streams sliding through lush green valleys. We passed by farms and coconut plantations, the smaller ones squalid third-world affairs, then followed a narrow, winding road through forest up into some foothills.
Presently we reached our target village, which amounted to several hundred yards of roadside shops and market stalls, with a school, a government building and a police station situated around a little square off to the side. Several larger homes fronted the main drag, bunched together apart from the many smaller, shabbier ones. Toward the far end of town I spotted the modest minarets of a small mosque. Dirt lanes led off the paved road, along which the rest of the residents lived in various grades of shacks and hovels. The town was in a carnival mood. Small, sunbrowned people milled along the street or squatted in the shade of palms and banana plants. Kids scampered among chickens, dogs, pigs and other denizens of rural life.
Our driver stopped before a cinderblock general store doing brisk business, with a tangle of bicycles, mopeds and motorcycles parked out front. Women, some of them wearing floral headscarves, pawed through racks of bright new clothing and picked over displays of baubles. Customers paraded in and out the door. We told our driver to park up the road and wait, and climbed out of the car. With a few hundred meters of elevation, the air wasn’t as moistly heavy as down by the sea but was tropical enough to put a damper on exertion. The bright red paint on the store’s metal door was dimmed by accumulating grime, faded by harsh sunlight and undermined by rust. I swung it open, and Luz and I went into the store’s sporadically lit, cluttered interior. Women chattered as they stuffed items into string bags and gathered at the counter, where an antique cash register popped up tags to show transactions with the traditional “ka-ching.” The men in the shop favored the liquor department, and several carried liter bottles of Russian vodka in hand.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 37