Fall Out

by M. N. Grenside

  “Why were you here?” whispered Mako in shock.

  “My grandfather had been a stone mason. So was my father, originally. He was very skilled at cutting stones… but precious ones. He is buried right here along with many others,” she said stamping her foot on the heavy paving stone. “You will never see the tomb, or those like it. There were 172 by the end. Many people say they never existed. I know different. You know why?”

  They both shook their heads, totally focused on the frail woman. “Because I managed to sneak in one day and saw my father at work. That was why he wanted me to escape, to tell what I had seen, what he knew.”

  “Which was?” asked Mako.

  She looked up at the sky and the seagulls hovering above the river, targeting scraps of food for their evening meal.

  “The largest collection of booty the world had ever seen.”

  “You mean treasure?” Marcus asked. “Not drugs?” the thoughts of the past two days still rolling around in his head.

  “Oh, I’m sure there were drugs. The Japanese Army had controlled the flow of opium for years and used the product and the money it generated very effectively. But much more important was looting valuables and bullion. The Japanese Army had been on a rampage throughout Asia for much of the first half of the twentieth century; Korea, China, looting and pillaging wherever they went. The Rape of Nanking was the tip of the iceberg. Then came the outbreak of World War II and the invasion of Burma. Quickly the Japanese systematically sucked up everything they could find. Diamonds, rubies, sapphires, all manner of precious stones, artwork and treasures, along with bars of precious metal in every shape and size. Pyramid-shaped gold statuettes weighing several pounds, bricks of silver and platinum all the way down to little slabs of a few ounces; hundreds and thousands of them.”

  “Biscuits. Every Chinese family had them,” said Mako quietly, an understanding now spreading over her face. “Back then, the Chinese didn’t trust banks, they hoarded the gold at home.”

  Consuela gave a nod.

  “You know your culture’s history. Tell me, with two thousand years of hiding family wealth under the bed and seventy percent of the world’s population in Asia at the beginning of the last century, do you seriously believe the West’s official figures at the outbreak of war with Japan? They somehow calculated that the whole of Asia had less than five percent of the world’s mined gold? My father would always smile at such naivety.”

  Marcus stared at Mako, his theories of the last few days being ripped to shreds by this old woman.

  “But the Japanese had a problem. Once America entered the war nearly all their homeports were blockaded. So the Imperial Army systematically shipped what was left of 25 years of plunder to this set of Japanese controlled islands, especially Manila’s harbor with this Fort. The Japanese hid tons of booty here waiting for a time when either the war was won, or as became increasingly apparent, if they were to lose, enable a chosen few with the right maps to recover it in the aftermath.”

  “You mean they planned to come back, no matter what,” asked Marcus incredulously?

  “Most certainly. They didn’t worry too much that anyone else would steal it. The workers who built the hiding places were always buried in them. Without the maps the sites were virtually undetectable… and if you were unlucky enough to stumble onto one, the booby-traps would kill you long before you could remove anything.”

  “This is unreal,” said Mako, her forehead wrinkled and her whole face a frown of denial.

  “No, it is very real. The Japanese High Command named it operation ‘Golden Lily’. It has since become better known by the man who buried much of it. He was the General in charge of all the Philippines and built the tomb under your feet. General Tomoyuki Yamashita. Yamashita’s Gold. He also had a nickname of course…”

  “The Tiger of Malaya?” Marcus said slowly.

  “So you’ve heard of him? He’s quite a legend here.”

  “The bell-hop introduced me. Exactly how much are we talking about,” asked Marcus as casually as he could?

  Consuela paused, “The estimated value in 1945 was over $100 billion, say over $1.25 trillion in today’s value.”

  Marcus let out a laugh. “Oh come on… that’s, that’s insane. Surely this would have been huge news. You can’t keep something this big a secret,” he said bursting with incredulity. “You had me going for a while there but… c’mon Mako. Let’s go. This will lead to some sucker punch.”

  As they rose to leave, Consuela’s tone became cold, hard edged. “Money of that size controls nations. The victors and the defeated were always going to sit down and make a deal. And Communism, or the threat of it, was the argument they used. The Allies secretly dispersed most of the money. There were whispers that the CIA funded the Black Eagle Trust with it; their secret slush fund that fought communism for fifty years in Asia. President Marcos of course got his cut, even Japan benefitted.”

  “Oh, that’s the most ridiculous conspiracy theory I’ve ever heard,” snapped Mako.” Japan was on its knees after the war.”

  “Think. Japan, unlike Germany, was never forced to pay war reparations. In their view they already had, at least to the Western Allies. To the victors the spoils. The losers weren’t the rulers of Japan but rather those from whom Japan had stolen. China never got one piece of treasure back and the Allies denied its very existence. China has been desperate for proof of the looting and offers indemnity to anyone who can prove it.”

  “This is bullshit,” Marcus replied.

  “The man I live with, who gives me shelter. He knows my background. He is a powerful man now. He even owns the hotel where you are staying. He will be waiting for you tomorrow in Pagsanjan,” said the old woman. “Listen to him. Then decide.”

  Marcus shook his head.

  “I think the concierge just set us up.” He moved to leave and lent towards Mako’s ear. “Next thing you know she’s going to try and sell us a map to take with us,” he whispered a little too loud, but his conviction was wavering.

  Consuela allowed herself a smile. She knew she still had enough of their attention. “Only 151 of the 172 maps were recovered by the Americans. General Yamashita was hanged, but his driver Major Kojima was tortured. Kojima led the US forces to many of the other locations and even a hiding place for some of the maps and codes.”

  “Oh yes, sure about that are you?” Marcus said sarcastically. “The number is correct. I should know. While here,” she said

  tapping the stone floor, “I made a number of them. Later Marcos forced me to decipher the remaining maps that eventually came to light after the Americans had left.”

  Her reply hit Marcus like a blow to the solar plexus.

  Consuela got up to leave. Marcus made a move to follow her, but the burly bodyguard stepped forward and held him back, an arm locked around his chest.

  “Now you know why he’s here,” said Mako. “C’mon, we have to leave… please let my boyfriend go.”

  Datu’s vice-like grip relaxed. Mako curled her arm around Marcus and they slowly headed to the car. A sudden thought struck him and he turned back to the departing woman. “Your father. Did he ever mention Aqua Regia?” he called out.

  She stopped and turned to face him. “It’s a mixture of hydrochloric and nitric acids. You rarely see it now. It was used to test the purity of gold.”

  Marcus didn’t move a muscle as her answer sank in. Sam had got it all wrong. It wasn’t drugs; THE LAST COMPANY was all about Yamashita’s Gold.

  Part V

  THE CAVE

  59

  PAGSANJAN, PHILIPPINES

  MARCH 1977

  “Last Looks.”

  “Quiet on the set.”

  “Turnover.”

  “Speed.”

  “Tag it.”

  “Action.”

  * * *

  It was March 1977 and the first time Louis had ever been near a movie set. At just over nineteen years old, he was mesmerized by the number of people scu
rrying around with clipboards and walkie-talkies strapped to their belts. Craning his neck from his hiding place, Louis and his friends could see an oasis of light in the distance where a scene was being filmed. Louis was astonished at the amount of money and logistics needed to mount such a massive operation. Pagsanjan was a small village just outside Manila, but it was now populated by people from every corner of the globe, who had been working nonstop on the movie APOCALYPSE NOW.

  The movie would turn out to be one of the most critically acclaimed ever made, as well as being a substantial financial success. Unbeknownst to those involved though, it also created a river of cash for a lowly lorry driver named Haribon Guinto, a gate crasher with dreams, Louis McConnell, and a recently fired banker, Stefan de Turris.

  In 1977 Louis McConnell’s father was stationed at the huge base in Subic Bay just outside Manila, the largest U.S. Naval installation in the Pacific as well as the single largest overseas military installation of the U.S. Armed Forces.

  Louis was bored and ventured further and further from the base to taste the delights of Manila’s night life in Quezon City. He was pleasantly shocked at the expertise and willingness of the beautiful hostesses; paying for sexual encounters was a justifiable expense he would keep up throughout his adult life. He also noted that for a deeply Catholic country where bars with nudity should be fined, paying off the right person was the most effective method of getting things done.

  While visiting a regular haunt, he bumped into a young, tall blond-haired Swiss banker with an aquiline nose and noble profile called Stefan de Turris. They started talking and Stefan explained he had been out to the set of the famous movie. His boss from New York had lapped up the stories and rumors of the difficulties on the shoot. Two days earlier they had flown in uninvited to try to offer short-term finance for the production.

  “No luck, they weren’t interested. I made the mistake of telling my boss he had not handled the meeting well. He fired me on the spot, so I’m here in town spending my severance pay before going home.”

  “What will you do next?” asked Louis.

  “Short-term lending is a fool’s game. Do you know what a film bond is?”

  Louis shook his head.

  Stefan explained the business of insuring the delivery of a film. “I just have to find some cash to start a business on my own. I know how to pull it together and really compete.”

  Louis wanted to know more about this world of film and finance. He had become fascinated by the events taking place just south of the city; the stories about APOCALYPSE NOW had been national and international gossip for over a year.

  “Tell me about what’s going on in Pagsanjan,” asked Louis.

  “It’s one hell of an undertaking. I hope to God the movie works. It’s costing a fortune,” said Stefan. “But Francis Ford Coppola is a genius. I suspect it will be a massive success.”

  “Maybe I should go check it out, might learn something?” said Louis.

  “Forget it,” said Stefan. “Stay here in Manila. It’s much more fun,” he said turning to a young cocktail waitress. However Louis was interested in this strange new world and wanted to know more.

  “Come on. Show me,” he pleaded, his hands raised in mock supplication.

  “We won’t get near the place,” said Stefan.

  Louis took out a roll of cash, money his grandfather had sent him.

  “Two thousand bucks to add to your new business fund if you get me there. A bit of look and learn.”

  You’re naive… but money talks, the banker thought to himself. “Deal,” he said. “Meet me at the bus station tomorrow at 6:00am. Be ready for a long journey.” He then turned and smiled at a cocktail waitress, waiving Louis’ bankroll.

  The more Louis talked to Stefan during the bus ride, the more he learned. What really attracted him, what fascinated him, what he wanted, was the power of so much money being spent and controlled by so few.

  He himself had neither the skill nor talent to write or direct. He was not blessed with the looks or presence required to act. But he was determined and resourceful. Somehow he would control that talent and become the power behind movie making.

  “One day this will be my world,” said Louis confidently. “Tomorrow I want you to get me in close. Then you can go home if you want.” He offered Stefan his hand to shake. Stefan declined. “Let’s see how it goes. Might cost you more,” he said with a grin.

  Security on the set was tight as a drum; rumors were swirling in the newspapers, about everything from alleged budget overages to rows between the Studio and the director, all wrapped up in the enigmatic shadow of its star, Marlon Brando.

  After managing to catch a glimpse of the day’s shooting while hidden high up on a rocky hillside, Louis and Stefan decided to bivouac far enough away from the set not to be noticed. Louis found a crevice in a small rocky outcrop and pitched camp.

  * * *

  Haribon Guinto had proved to be extremely dependable ever since he had arrived on the set in that downpour several months previously with a broken arm and his small co-driver Jonathan. His trucks were now a mainstay among the army of vehicles needed to supply the crew with equipment and the odd luxury during the arduous months of shooting.

  He arrived that day with another massive load, but this time he was alone. Jonathan was ill and there was no one else he trusted for this particular client. Despite the passing of time, Haribon’s arm had never regained full strength. He was struggling to unload in the mud of the compound next to the production offices when Louis appeared out of the bushes. Without a word and in the steamy heat of the day, Louis pitched in and started to help. A reluctant Stefan joined him.

  “I’m not paying you more than a few pesos,” Haribon gasped as they toiled at unloading the goods. “And if you try and rip anything off, I’ll rip you a new asshole.”

  “Keep your money, just keep us on,” said Louis. “And I’ll add another five hundred bucks to your fund,” whispered Louis to a complaining Stefan.

  They unloaded gels for lights, endless boxes of percussion caps and flares, spare parts for a generator, batteries, even some Italian pasta and food addressed to ‘Palm Springs’.

  “It’s the nickname they give to Mr. Coppola’s office,” whispered Haribon reverentially when he saw the confused look on Louis’ face.

  By the time they had finished, it was dark and they were soaked with rain and sweat.

  “It’s too late to return. You two can sleep in the back of the truck,” suggested Haribon as he handed them a warm San Miguel beer. Stefan took one.

  “Thank you, but I’ll pass, said Louis. “We have a camp hidden a little way back. Let me make you dinner. They’re called C-Rats because I think that’s what’s in them… compliments of the U.S. Armed Forces.”

  The three young men walked back into the jungle.

  “If I don’t like your food, I have some smokes and Tupay,” grinned Haribon.

  Louis looked puzzled. “Tupay?”

  “It’s like sake, a rice wine but with a real kick,” grinned the big Filipino, “unlike that Japanese piss.”

  “I don’t smoke cigarettes either,” added Louis disdainfully.

  “I don’t smoke tobacco either, my friend,” murmured Haribon. Louis felt slightly uncomfortable at the familiarity shown to him by a simple truck driver, yet he swallowed his pride in return for information.

  As the evening wore on, it became clear Haribon was much more than a delivery man. He was intelligent and well educated. Louis became curious.

  “How did you get into all this?”

  “My mother grew up with Imelda Marcos,” began Haribon. “My father was one of our president’s lapdogs, but one day he pissed off someone other than just me … the police hauled him away. My mother killed herself and WHAM! I went from a life of privilege to a street urchin in a week. I was just a kid,” he said lighting a hand rolled cigarette.

  He continued with his story, the fall from grace of his family and his own subsequ
ent rise from the streets. As Louis listened, Haribon passed him the sweet-smelling joint. It was actually the first time Louis had ever smoked grass. He took a tentative draw, passing it to Stefan who took a quick sharp toke.

  “You ever meet Marcos; I mean before they hauled your father away?” Stefan asked between coughs.

  “I’m pretty sure my mother fucked him,” said Haribon speaking in short staccato bursts, trying not to breathe out the smoke. “Yin and Yang… I am sure it was Imelda who fucked my family,” he exhaled immediately following it with another deep drag, passing the joint back to Louis.

  “And we thought ‘Tricky Dicky Nixon’ was bad,” said Louis as he took a lungful of air and weed, held his breath then exhaled. His mind started to fuzz over.

  “Now you are being rude, Kano. No way would my mother have fucked Nixon…” Haribon flashed a fierce look at Louis, who was scared he had somehow insulted him and dropped the reefer. “He’s so ugly”.

  Haribon collapsed into laughter, tears streaming down his face at his own joke. Even Stefan started to laugh. Not Louis. Haribon lit another joint and offered it to him. However Louis declined any more drags. He liked being in control and the fog in his brain from the joint prevented that. He also had no sense of humor, so the laughter that usually came with getting high passed him by. It would be the one and only time he ever took drugs.

  “What’s your background, Mr. Clean?” teased Haribon. Louis hesitated. He turned to Stefan.