Fall Out

by M. N. Grenside

  * * *

  Mako flipped the page.

  * * *

  AGUINALDO

  (To Frank)

  Tell that Jonas to be careful.

  Tiko kills for less.

  * * *

  She shook her head. “Too late for some,” she said with resignation in her voice, staring out of the airplane window.

  He reached out to her with his thumb and forefinger gently holding her chin and turned her face towards his. He kissed her forehead.

  “We have a while before we land… try and get some rest,” he said with a smile.

  56

  ABOVE MANILA, PHILIPPINES

  Several hours had passed as the plane started its descent through the soft humid air of a Philippine dawn.

  “Twenty minutes to landing,” came the announcement as all the lights in the cabin came on.

  The flight attendant came over with immigration and customs’ forms. With Marcus still flipping through the scripts, Mako pulled out both their tickets and passports to get the required information.

  As she looked through his passport and travel documents, she noticed something, “So your Esta expired. No wonder they kicked you out.” Marcus was lost in thought.

  “ESTA you know Electronic System for Travel Authorisation,” she added.

  He blinked then turned to her suddenly, giving her a huge kiss.

  “Mako, you’re a genius. That’s it!”

  “What are you talking about?” she said as papers fell from the travel pullout desk as Marcus excitedly punched the keyboard.

  He quickly opened the laptop, pulled up his email and showed her the one from Jax that concluded.

  * * *

  FYI, after an eternity IRS still not granted probate on Sam’s estate. They have frozen a payment of $300,000 and keep asking what it relates to. It came from the Philippines but they keep hitting a brick wall of silence and are driving me crazy, muttering about bringing in DEA. I’ve no idea what it was for. They found an entry in Sam’s calendar on the day the money hit saying, ‘GET PAYMENT’.

  From who? Does this mean anything to you?

  Best Jax

  * * *

  “I’m so stupid,” he said. “In your father’s script. Remember what Frank says? It’s not get cash but G.E.T cash. Sam’s note in his diary wasn’t to get payment, it was G.E.T payment. Golden Eagle Trust. When he was in Pagsanjan, he must’ve gotten through to someone at the bank.

  “But, that makes no sense. Why would they talk to him? ” asked Mako.

  Marcus picked up a script. “Here, in your father’s version. These people who fronted for the payments. What if somehow Sam was unwittingly fronting for a share of the money that goes to the Tiger of Malaya Corporation and the $300,000 alerted him?” said Marcus.

  “We’re landing now. You have to turn that off please,” said the flight attendant. Marcus slammed the laptop shut and flipped through the pages on the script.

  “The quotation …” continued Marcus, “‘THE SECRET OF A GREAT SUCCESS FOR WHICH YOU ARE AT A LOSS TO ACCOUNT IS A CRIME THAT HAS NEVER BEEN FOUND OUT, BECAUSE IT WAS PROPERLY EXECUTED’. The $300,000 is part of the secret of a great success that was never found out.”

  “Why now? His account in LA? Makes no sense,” said Mako as she shook her head. “We know from the spreadsheets that payments were made regularly ever since the film ended. This is just one.”

  “But to the wrong place. What if it’s not one payment, but one of many?” Marcus’ mind was in full flow.

  “How could it have been going on for all that time? He’d have noticed it,” argued Mako logically.

  “Pagsanjan,” he said slowly. “We all had accounts there. We all put our domestic details on the forms we filled out. Standard practice so any surplus can be remitted home. We closed all the accounts when we left, but who knows? Maybe the bank kept them open to receive funds but just changed where the money was eventually sent. Money could have been going there for 15 years, then bang, a screw up, an accident, and one payment goes to Sam’s account in LA. Mako, this makes sense.”

  She was doing her best to follow his train of thought as she buckled her seatbelt. “So keep going.”

  He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “So Sam finds he has this one payment, traces it to Pagsanjan, decides to check things out. They’d talk to Sam, probably thought he’d been in on the scam and they’d told him it was a Golden Eagle Trust payment. What’s 20 years multiplied by two bi-annual payments of $300,000…,” asked Marcus.

  “$12 million,” said Mako in a flash.

  “Jesus, Mako. No wonder Sam was so angry,” he said. “We all had accounts there. Sam, myself, Kelso, McConnell, Bill, and your father.”

  “My father and McConnell?”

  “When the movie got into trouble, your father was to have come down to the set. He needed an account. As for McConnell, we held an account for him to pay fees.

  Six. Money from Golden Eagle Trust went to six numbered accounts that eventually found their way back to the Tiger of Malaya Corporation,” said Marcus.

  “Sam’s script was telling my father he knew about the accounts. But why doesn’t your version mention them?” Mako asked.

  “I just hope it’s because he believed I had been used too,” said Marcus.

  “And it has all been funded by a massive drug smuggling operation started on THE LAST COMPANY?” whispered Mako.

  “It still doesn’t completely explain what we found on the USB. I’m not sure what the hell was going on. If the $500 million was from drugs, what was the first set of figures? Why did they show a $25 million difference between reported and actual? Why take so long to sell?”

  The planes’ tires gave a ‘chirrup’ as they touched the tarmac.

  57

  MANILA, PHILIPPINES

  “Can we take a break for a moment?” pleaded Mako as she waited in the immigration queue. Marcus had been standing next to her, quietly talking to himself as he kept re-running the scenario, going over the conclusions he had reached, testing and probing to see if they really held water.

  He did not answer so she pulled his face towards hers. “It’s still early in the morning. Let’s just get to the hotel, relax. Gather our thoughts.”

  He blinked as if being pulled out of a dream. “Ok sure. Sorry. But this is beginning to fit.”

  They eventually cleared immigration and headed to customs to collect their luggage.

  * * *

  Marcus had reserved a room at a newly built hotel and apartment complex in Makati. The hotel offered a car hire service, and he had also booked one to drive them to Pagsanjan.

  The limousine sent by the hotel was waiting, the chauffeur standing patiently at the arrival’s exit with a placard reading ‘Mr. and Mrs. Ry Lee’.

  “Very funny,” said Mako with mock sarcasm as she climbed into the back of the Mercedes.

  “Welcome to Manila,” said the driver. “Honeymoon?” he ventured as he pulled out into the early morning traffic.

  Mako kicked Marcus before he could answer.

  An hour later they pulled up in front of the imposing glass and steel entrance of the new hotel, which occupied one of two towers. The other would house luxury apartments but was still under construction.

  “All rooms sound-proofed,” said the driver obviously used to the immediate reaction of visitors when they drove up and realized the hotel was next to a large construction site.

  They were courteously greeted and quickly taken up to a room on the 23rd floor with a magnificent panorama of the city, hazy and blurred by the humid air and smog. As they started to unpack Marcus rang reception to confirm the rental car for the next day.

  * * *

  “A cash deposit will be fine,” said the concierge.

  Just as Marcus was about to hang up, he paused. “Do you have a portable printer I could use? Thanks, yes, please send it up. No hurry.”

  Mako looked at him quizzically.

  “I want to
print a spare copy of my script. I don’t want the originals with my numbers and notes on them with us,” he explained.

  “We’ll put those in the hotel’s main safe, not the room one. I never trust ’em,” added Mako as she started to undress.

  She peeled off her clothes, giving him a slow look and with a barely perceptible grin, turned and walked towards the huge shower cubicle. The multi-headed shower system pumped water from every angle over her entire body, and she closed her eyes and luxuriated under the spray that pounded her like hot rain.

  There was a gentle gust of air as the glass door opened. Eyes still closed Mako smiled to herself. She gently splayed her legs and leaned her forearms against the marble wall as she felt Marcus’ hand cup her breast, his lips on her neck as he slowly entered her. A moment later he had to stop. There was a feeble, barely audible knock at the door. Then the doorbell sounded.

  “Stay right there,” he whispered as he got out of the shower and pulled on a robe, checking to ensure there was not too much evidence of the effect Mako’s naked body had on him.

  “You sure know how to give a girl a good time,” she cooed with an exaggerated sigh, crossing her arms as she leaned against the shower wall.

  Marcus opened the door to an elderly man who staggered in, weighted down by a large printer.

  “Here let me help you,” Marcus said, but the man shooed him away and plonked the machine on the desk.

  “El placer es todo mío, señor.” The old man paused. “Anything else, Algo más?”

  Marcus caught his meaning and picked up his hastily discarded trousers lying on the floor. All he had were Euros, Dollars and Swiss Francs.

  “Let me,” said Mako as she stepped into the room, a robe covering her body and a towel majestically wrapped around her long dark hair. The old man could not help but stare at this beautiful woman. She reached into her handbag and pushed 50 Euros into the old man’s palm.

  “If they don’t change it for you, let me know,” Marcus said eager to be alone again.

  “Don’t let them rip you off; it’s worth a bit more than 3000 Pesos,” added Mako.

  The old man’s eyes lit up with gratitude.

  “That is too much, es demasiado dinero,” the elderly bellhop stammered as he made a half-hearted effort to find some change from his own pocket to give back to Mako.

  “You earned it,” Marcus smiled, bowing slightly and gesturing towards the open door hoping the generous tip would speed the bellhop’s exit.

  The old man shuffled towards the door, shaking his head and looking at the €50 note in disbelief.

  “More money than the Tiger of Malaya, rico como el Tigre de Malaya” he muttered closing the door behind him, unaware of the shocked expressions on Mako and Marcus’ faces.

  58

  MANILA, PHILIPPINES

  “Sir, the Tiger of Malaya is a name every Filipino knows. Part of a myth, a fairy tale we all took comfort in during the bad times of poverty after the war,” said the concierge as he peered at Marcus over a pair of half-moon spectacles.

  Marcus had quickly collected what he wanted to put in the safe and was now downstairs talking to the concierge. The man exuded efficient calm in his pale grey trousers, black waistcoat, and elegant long-tailed morning suit jacket. Marcus was still dressed only in a robe and was starting to attract the stares of several well-heeled guests.

  “Listen, there is someone… claims to be an expert… rarely sees foreigners. I’ll see what I can do, señor.” The concierge reached over for a phone and cradled the receiver under his neck. “Now please, may I suggest you return to your room? Your attire is maybe not suitable?”

  “OK. Sure. Thanks. Apologies. One more thing. Could you please lock these in the hotel safe?” asked Marcus handing over the scripts, his budget, notes, and the USB. Already dialing the phone, the concierge nodded, and Marcus went back to the room and his unfinished business with Mako.

  The concierge was as good as his word and later that morning Mako and Marcus were sitting in the back of a limousine. The driver introduced himself as Datu and looked as if he could drive in masonry nails with his bare hands.

  “And where are we going, exactly?” asked Mako as she knotted her long black hair into a ponytail.

  “Up by South Harbor, Ma’am. Entrance Pasig River,” said the driver, glancing into the rearview mirror. “Fort Santiago. Ramon meet there you,” added the hulk without even turning around.

  “Are you also our interpreter?” she inquired trying to keep a straight face.

  “Ramon English good. I here to serve and protect.”

  This time Datu turned and flashed a smile, showing off two gold teeth as well as his knowledge of the Los Angeles police motto, no doubt gleaned from watching endless cop shows on multi-channel Philippine television.

  “Is the Fort dangerous,” asked Mako

  “No, many tourists. Sometimes a pocket-pick,” he added, “so leave valuables in car.”

  “OK, but we would like to talk to this Ramon alone,” added Marcus.

  “Talk with Ramon is the danger. I be in background,” grinned the big man, his head half swiveling to his guests for a moment.

  With that he turned back to look at the traffic and the blinking brake lights as the car stopped-started its way up Taft Avenue.

  The heat and humidity were fierce. Mako looked out of the window as they passed a ticket booth whose guard waved them through with a salute.

  “Seems our friend has juice with the locals,” muttered Mako.

  The car continued up a red brick pathway lined with a lush garden. In front of them was a moat and stone gateway that led to the ancient fort. The car halted and was immediately set upon by local vendors with everything from tacky souvenirs to offers of guided tours. The big man got out and his sheer bulk had the desired effect; nearly everyone melted away.

  A stooped figure dressed in dark trousers, a white short-sleeved shirt, a salacot hat and clutching a bamboo walking stick was the only one who remained. The figure approached the car, removed the hat, and peered in. Marcus opened the window and looked up at the deeply lined face of an old woman.

  “Magadang umaga. Good morning. Welcome to Fort Santiago. My name is Consuela Imee Ramon… and you have some very powerful friends,” she said in a calm voice.

  Mako gave Marcus a puzzled look as they climbed out of the car.

  “Who?” she asked.

  The woman neither offered her hand to shake nor answered Mako’s question. Datu followed a respectful few paces behind them.

  “I have not given a private tour here for many, many years. Please follow me,” she said. With that she turned and with her cane tap-tap-tapping over the cobblestones, she headed over to the ruins marked ‘Spanish Barracks’.

  Mako could not help noticing Consuela’s gnarled misshapen hand, which held her cane. She discreetly pointed this out to Marcus as she mouthed “What happened to her?”

  “Do you know our story of the origin of man?” the old woman asked, not turning around. Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “According to myth, long, long ago, there was a giant eagle that was continually flying between the earth and the sky, unable to find any land to rest upon. Crying out as to why this should be so, the eagle told the sky that the sea had designs of rising up and drowning it.

  The sky was so angered by this that it told the bird it would throw down rocks and islands to pin the sea down should it try such a thing. The eagle relayed this message to the sea, who immediately retaliated by sending waves lashing into the sky.

  The sky however proved too powerful and rained boulders onto the water’s surface until it was so weighted down it was no longer a threat. The eagle then alighted on a rock, here, in what is now Luzon Island. A bamboo shoot,” she continued, lifting up her cane, “much like this, washed ashore and tapped at the bird’s feet.” She did exactly that, rapping with her stick on the warm stone floor at the entrance to the ruins. Then at last, she turned to them. “The eagle pecked at
the shoot and out popped a man, followed by a woman. Our Adam and Eve.”

  “So, is that why in your fairytales and culture bamboo is so important?” Marcus asked, vaguely recalling some tales told round a film-location campfire long ago.

  She nodded, adding, “And that’s why we also have a healthy regard for the guile and cunning of our great eagle, the Haribon.” There was a pause as she looked at them both in turn. She took a deep breath as if summoning up her strength and pointed to the building.

  “This site was once the palace of Rajah Sulayman, a chief during the pre-Spanish era. It was destroyed by the conquistadors and around 1571 this Fort was erected in its place. Ever since then it has been the strategic stronghold for whoever has wanted to control and occupy Manila… of which there have been far too many.”

  She walked slowly over to a nearby wooden bench and sat down. Mako looked at Marcus and they joined her, offering her some water they had brought from the car.

  “No thank you, I have my own,” she said, pulling a small silver vial from her hip pocket. She took a nip. “During the closing stages of World War II, the Japanese invaders, under the command of a fearsome General, converted the barracks into dungeons. The lucky ones were dragged up here to be beheaded. Those in the lower cells drowned each time the tide came in, like so many rats in a hole. Every day the dead bodies were hauled out and thrown into the river, the cells then replenished by newly captured men and women.” She paused taking a nip of the contents of her flask. She pointed to small knots of young couples as they strolled along the promenade, oblivious to the horrors that had occurred so close by. “In a way I hope they never really know what happened here.” She turned her attention back to Mako and Marcus. She could see the shock on their faces. “My father died here. Had I been older I would probably have died as well, raped to death. Instead I was beaten, my hands and legs smashed with hammers for trying to escape. I finally managed to scramble out after an air raid.”