While they ate, Colgan began to fill him in.
"Marisa tells me you don't know very much about Charles Harding."
"That's right," Bolan said.
"But you were following him." Bolan noticed that it was a statement, not a question. "Look, you don't have to say anything. I know what I know. And I know you were following him. What I know, and you don't, is why."
"Oh?" Bolan raised an eyebrow at that.
"That think-tank charade is pure fluff, garbage, window dressing, for Christ's sake. That nonsense is about as legitimate as three-card monte on a New York street corner."
"Then what is he really up to?"
"I only know part of it," Colgan said, reaching for a tin cup to wash some of the rice down with tepid water. "Look, Belasko, let's be honest with one another. Harding is fronting, maybe even masterminding, although I can't prove it, a plot to overthrow the Aquino government. That's why he is here, and that's what he's been doing ever since she took over."
"And I suppose you're a white knight who plans to rescue the lady from the dragon."
"Something like that, yes. But the lady is not who you think she is, Mr. Belasko. The lady is not Corazon Aquino she is the Republic of the Philippines."
"So you tried to have Harding iced..." Bolan watched Colgan chew one of the chunks of fish, reach in gingerly to pull a small white bone from between his teeth and shake his head in disagreement.
"No," he argued. "That business at the airport was his people."
Bolan grunted. "What'd he do, make off with the treasury?"
"Nope. It's probably a lot simpler than that."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really."
"Then why?"
"Because you were following him. Maybe they were after you, Mr. Belasko. Maybe it's even as simple as that. The people behind him are scared. They're a special breed. I call them the mushrooms. They only grow in the dark, and the more shit around them, the better they like it."
"And you think that's why I was following him? To let some light into the cellar?" Bolan scooped a forkful of the sticky rice into his mouth. It was getting cold, and the grains were clumping together into a pasty mass in his mouth. He dropped the fork and let it lie on the table. "Well, I'll tell you something, Mr. Colgan. You couldn't be further off the mark."
"Whatever you say."
"If you know something, Colgan, spit it out. Otherwise let's just shut up and eat whatever the hell this is. And I'll be on my way."
"Look, you think things are okay here. You think, now that Marcox is gone, the Philippines can settle down to a nice, quiet Third World siesta. Mama Aquino is here to spank people like me who get out of line, so Uncle Sam can sleep well at night. But it isn't like that. You know, most Americans think reality is what's in the newspapers. But they're dead wrong. Reality is what people don't let into the papers. It's Ollie North and Rose Mary Woods, Lee Harvey Oswald and Gavrilo Princip. It's what's in the tucking dark, Belasko, that's what reality is."
"So where does Harding come in?"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you, man. Harding is just one of them. And not the most significant. In this chess game, he's a bishop, no more. But the queen, Belasko, the queen, that's where the power lies. And she's down there somewhere, in the dark, planning it all, trying to reshape the Philippines in the image of Ferdinand Marcos. He was the liaison man, the conduit between the Pentagon and the Leyte Brigade."
"Never heard of it," Bolan said, not particularly impressed.
"You will, and you can take that to the bank. Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Unless we manage to uproot it, kill it, let it lie there in the bright sun and shrivel up like a dandelion. These are tucking vampires Belasko, that's what we're talking about. They need the darkness, deep cover. They know every trick in the book, everything from false flags to bamboo under the fingernails. They have money and they have connections, in Aquino's government and in the Pentagon. That's what it's all about. Getting rid of Aquino and replacing her with a right-wing government. Generals in her own army get drunk and talk about setting her head out on a stake. This is not kindergarten here, man. And you have been sent to school without your textbooks. You better be a quick learner, Mr. Belasko."
"Then why doesn't anyone know about it in the States?"
"They do, damn it, they do. But only a few people, people with one hand in the cash drawer and the other wrapped around a gun butt."
"Who, then. The CIA?"
"That's the bogey man, Belasko, kid stuff to scare liberals around their campfires. No, nothing that simple..."
"Who, then? The NSA?.."
"I'm not sure."
Bolan laughed outright. "You expect me to buy your joke and you don't even have a punchline. That's just plain pathetic, Colgan."
"Oh, you think so, do you?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Then answer me one simple question."
"Shoot."
"Why were you following Harding?"
Bolan stared at him. Colgan had a hook, and Bolan could see him debating whether or not to twist it a little deeper into his flesh. But the look faded, and Colgan smiled instead.
"Forget I said that."
"No, you're right. But something tells me you do know." He locked his eyes on Colgan's. Neither man blinked.
"All right, fair enough." Colgan smiled more broadly. "Something tells me we're on the same side, whether you know it or not. I'll tell you what I know, which isn't much. Two months ago, on Harding's last trip back here, somebody else was following him. We knew about him, just like we knew about you." He held up a cautionary finger. "Don't ask, because I can't tell you how. Anyway, we lost track of Harding and the tail. The next thing we knew, Harding was back in the States. The other guy finally turned up in a sewer in Ongpin."
"That could be a coincidence," Bolan suggested.
"I'll grant you that," Colgan replied. "It could be."
"But you don't think so..."
"No. Mr. Belasko, I don't."
"Do you want to tell me why?"
Colgan nodded. "Sure. Because that was the third time it happened. Three tails, and three corpses. The odds against that sort of thing are rather high, if not astronomical."
"I gather you have someone pretty high up in D.C., somebody in a position to feed you information."
"Naturally. But our source can't get a fix on Harding from that end, and we never managed to pull it off on this end, either."
"Tell me something," Bolan said. "If Harding always managed to get away from his tail, and the corpse showed up days later, with no fanfare, why would his own people try to take me out in such a public way? Why call attention to themselves? It doesn't make sense."
"That's true, and I don't have an explanation for it. Or, rather, I should say I don't have anything but conjecture."
"And that is?"
"You, Mr. Belasko. It has something to do with you. If the situation is not different, then the tail must be. It's just simple logic, after all."
Bolan shook his head but said nothing.
Colgan did not amplify, and Bolan finally stood up.
"Marisa will show you to your quarters. Get cleaned up. I'll see you in an hour or so," Colgan said. "I know you don't believe me. But after you see what I have to show you, you will. I think you'll want to join the team. And we have a lot to do. The mushrooms are waiting, Mr. Belasko. They're waiting for us."
* * *
"Teas twice you let him slip through your fingers." Charles Harding leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. "I'm beginning to wonder if you can cut it anymore." The man across from him said nothing. There was nothing he could say, and he knew it. "Cordero is doing his part. We're so close I can almost smell the cordite. I don't want any more screw-ups. Do you understand?"
The man nodded. "I still don't see what the big deal is about this guy."
"No, I don't suppose you do. But then, I'm not surprised. You let some tw
o-bit sawbones with a messiah complex run you like a damn rabbit. How the hell can I expect you to understand what this man is?"
"Maybe if you weren't so damn secretive..."
Harding tilted forward. The legs of his chair slammed into the wooden floor. "The man is not one of those ordinary baboons they've been sending that's the first thing you have to get through that dense skull of yours. He's different. You know what happened at the airport. For crying out loud, man, you were there. You saw what he did. You think that's an ordinary jerk from some desk at the State Department?"
"No, of course not."
"Well then? What in the hell do you think?"
"I think it'd be a lot easier taking him out if you gave us more information."
"I don't have anything more than I gave you. I'm working on it, but every well I drill is dry. That ought to tell you something. It sure tells me something. This guy is poison. Somebody knows we've got a pipeline, and they flushed this guy down the chute to smoke us out. He doesn't have to nail me to be useful to them, and that's the whole point. Whatever happens to him and I don't think they worry a hell of a lot about it they learn something. Something they don't know now. Get it?"
"I guess so..."
Harding exploded. "Damn it, man, there is no room for guessing. Not now, not this late. The clock is ticking, and we an't stop it. Too much has been set in motion. I can't call Cordero off now."
"We'll get him, don't you worry."
"I do worry. That's why I'm here and you're on that side of the desk. You don't have brains enough to worry. You don't realize this man could bring us down."
"I'm telling you, he won't. I'll take care of it. Whatever it takes, it'll get done. You can bank on that."
"Banks fail. I don't believe in banks. I believe in graveyards and tombstones. That's what granite is for. That's what carved in stone means. Finished. Final. I want a tombstone over that son of a bitch. And I want it now!"
11
"It's not far," Colgan said, climbing into the front seat and nodding to the driver.
"What is it you want to show me?" Bolan asked.
"You know what they say about the picture and the thousand words?" Bolan acknowledged he knew the cliche, and Colgan went on. "Well, if that's what a picture's worth, I'd need a thousand pictures. It's easier if you just see for yourself." The driver sensed that the conversation had ended for the moment, and kicked the clutch. The jeep jolted, then the gears engaged and it settled into a steady roll.
The sun had burned through the mist, and Bolan was stunned by the beauty of the valley. Far to the east, the rugged Sierra Madre range looked like a silver ripsaw standing an the top edge of its blade. Beyond it, Bolan knew, the Pacific stretched for thousands of miles, its rolling swells barely disturbed by the occasional island.
To the west, the even more majestic Cordillera Central ran through the middle of the Luzon, as hard and unyielding as I spine in the back of a trout. In the lowlands the jungle was bigger than a universe. Mile after mile of green, broken by spectacular sprays of red and yellow, blue and orange, and purple so brilliant it seared the retina.
Everything in the vest seemed to move in a hurry.
Birds and butterflies, each trying to outdo the other with the extravagance of its colors, milled among the thick green leaves, flashing past and vanishing in an instant.
It was on this very island that a generation of young men, now slow, grey grandfathers, had fought the Japanese. It was on this same island that a younger generation of Filipinos fought against the remnants of colonial oppression with the passion and naivete so typical of young men. The first generation had won and the second had lost. And of the survivors, very few of either generation knew for certain what had been gained and how much it had cost.
That history was all around. Helmets rusted on the jungle floor, little more useful than the broken shells of coconuts. Ruined rifles lay buried in leaves, their wooden stocks long since crumbled away. The tangled growth even swallowed the ruins of Mustangs and Zeros, hardly more now than rusting skeletons.
Bolan stared into the trees as if looking for ghosts. If he looked hard enough and long enough, he knew they'd be there. Glancing at Colgan, he tried to read the man's mind, but the body language was confusing, contradictory. On the one hand, he looked as relaxed and confident as any man Bolan had ever seen. He seemed to be perfectly at home in his surroundings. But deep inside Colgan something was ticking away, second by second, some unknown number was approaching zero. Bolan didn't want to think what might happen then.
"Hang on," the driver said, derailing Bolan's train of thought. He spun the wheel and nudged the jeep into a narrow lane. The trees grew so close to either side of the passage that Bolan could have spread his arms and touched one with the fingers of each hand. The grass was yellowed ire twin stripes, the ground beneath it rutted, showing free quent, though not recent, passage.
Colgan turned to him, moved his lips twice, then shoot his head. He had wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words. Finally he settled for a pointing finger. "Up ahead, not far." The trees began to recede from the lane. Their branches still interlaced overhead, but the driver was able to relax a little with the added leeway. The lane widened farther, then vanished altogether as they broke into a wide, grassy meadow. Twin tracks of grassless clay ran straight as an arrow across the open field. The driver shifted down as the land began to climb at a steeper angle.
Colgan started to fidget. His shoulders kept squirming, and his head swiveled from side to side.
Over Colgan's shoulder, Bolan could see one knee jumping as Colgan tapped his foot restlessly on the floor of the jeep. They reached the top of the rise, and the jeep tilted forward as they began a shallow descent.
A rank of trees marched toward them, the advance guard of an army. Bugs swarmed in the air and buzzed angrily around their heads. Bolan slapped at something that stung his neck and brought his hand away with the pulped insect still quivering in his palm.
He looked at it with distaste, then scraped it off on the back wan and rubbed his palm clean on his pants.
This stand of trees was thinner, and Bolan could see the right sparkle of reflected light among them. The water tippled, sending slashes of white through the leaves. The jeep entered the trees again, and the driver eased off on the accelerator.
Colgan tapped the driver on the shoulder.
"Okay, Carlos. We'll walk now. You wait here."
Carlos killed the engine, and the jeep rolled to a halt. Colgan sat for a minute, as if holding an internal debate, teen climbed down. Bolan followed him, shifting the M-16 on his lap to his shoulder in the same motion.
Colgan headed downhill, toward the water.
Bolan fell in beside him. "You ready to tell me what this is all about?" he asked.
Colgan shook his head. "I already told you you'll see for yourself."
They were fifty yards from the water when they broke out of the trees. Close up, Bolan saw the sparkle for the lie it was. The water, like all tropical rivers, was greenish brown. It moved sluggishly. No more than two hundred feet wide, it swept past them in a broad, shallow arc. On the far shore a flight of wading birds took off with frightened squawks, their wings beating air and water, then just air as they lifted off, trailing their long, snakelike legs behind them.
Monkeys in the forest on the far side shrilled, frightening parrots, which erupted like colored clouds and disappeared. An abrupt silence descended on them. When Colgan spoke, he whispered. "This way," he said. He headed upriver. On the uneven slope, his stride was stiff and awkward, that of a man whose legs no longer bent the way they should.
Looking ahead, Bolan saw several charred black squares. He knew immediately what they were.
A village had been razed, the huts burned to nothing. The stumps of their stilts stuck up like black thumbs. Heaps of ashes marked the contours of the village. He had seen it a thousand times in Vietnam. It was almost humbling, how quickly a home could turn to dust. A
year from now, there would be no trace of this place. Already plants had rooted in the ash. Thick clumps of greenish-silver grass had sprouted, pushing the ashes up into small cones like volcanoes spewing green lava.
Over the entire scene, something ominous and oppressive choked Bolan, constricting his throat. He could smell it, and he knew what it was. But Colgan pushed on, seemingly oblivious.
And Bolan followed.
Carefully Colgan avoided stepping on the first patch of ashes, drifting toward the waterline before advancing again There was something ceremonial in the action. It was the ad of a man visiting a sacred shrine. Colgan's head was slumped forward on his chest, almost as if he were praying.
Methodically he threaded his way among the rectangular smears. Each of them bled downward, where rain had washed some of the ash toward the river.
The smell got stronger. Against the tree line, on the far side of the ruined village, a long, low mound ran perpendicular to the river. It was already half-green, covered with snaking vines, and grass sprouted haphazardly. Even flowers had taken root in the overturned earth.
Colgan stepped ten feet from the mound. The smell was overpowering now, and both men pinched their noses to keep it at bay. "There," Colgan muttered, his voice strangely unaffected. "There it is. Seventy-three men, women and children. Practically the entire population of the village that used to stand right here." He turned his head slowly, in a dreamlike silence, to see if Bolan understood what he was being told.
Bolan nodded his head. "What happened?" he asked.
"The Leyte Brigade. That's what happened. Charles Harding's handiwork, if you will."
"How do you know?"
"I know, that's all. Never mind how." Colgan dropped to one knee and crossed himself.
Bolan watched quietly as Colgan's lips ran through a silent prayer. When he had finished, Colgan stood up. He started to back away from the mound, then snapped his head sharply and turned away.
Bolan noticed the tears, but said nothing.
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