Fall Out

by M. N. Grenside

  Like Louis, Haribon had defined his own career by ruthless efficiency. Unlike Louis though, he had a set of rules, parameters he would not breach, mainly because he believed they were bad for business. For Haribon information was his lifeblood, pragmatism his code, and the intelligent application of money and power was how he built an empire.

  You chose partners and expected them to concentrate on the work at hand, not double-cross you. A gang war was counter-productive. Eventually the police tired of collecting the dead soldiers of rival gangs, sprawled all over the streets like so much litter. These operations were simply closed down en masse. That is why Haribon had survived. Persuasion and bribery worked better than murder and mayhem.

  Yet the more he unraveled what had been happening, the more he saw that he had been cheated. Crossing him face to face was dangerous enough, but for Louis to do it behind his back and make him look like a fool…? That was igniting a very dangerous fuse.

  The small-town banker, Rafael Satow had helped. He’d given Haribon the start he needed, but there was more. He needed to be sure who had been duped, who had done the stealing, and who had been paid as agreed. Then retribution would be his.

  He had decided to stay on for a day in Manila, like a bird of prey circling the city, his eyes constantly searching. With contacts at every level of airline, immigration and passport control, the first call about the arrival of Marcus Riley and surprisingly accompanied by de Turris’ daughter, had thrown him. He wondered how they had met, if they could be trusted, let alone trusted each other. He had a plan for that.

  The fact they chose his hotel was a bonus, although the odds were in his favor anyway. His company owned that development outright, but he had a part share in nearly every major hotel in Manila. The concierge knew he would be rewarded handsomely. Haribon took a mouthful of San Miguel beer as he relaxed into the sun-lounger. He needed to arrange his thoughts and decide what to say to his guest.

  Half an hour later, Haribon heard the soft fall of footsteps on the grass and looked round as one of the guards pushed the visitor into a seat opposite him. He looked at the defiant face. The other guard handed him a package.

  “From the hotel sir, just arrived,” the man said quietly to his boss.

  “You can go now,” Haribon said to them both as he peered into the package. “Thank you.” The documents and a red USB would have to wait. He turned and looked at his visitor.

  “Magandang hapon, Ginang, Good afternoon Madam. I am Haribon Guinto.”

  The upturned face glowered at him, then spat.

  “You ordered the murder of my husband, you son of a bitch. There’s nothing more you can do to me,” said Cara with as much defiance as she could muster.

  “You are wrong on both counts. However, I need to be sure what you know… or most probably don’t.”

  At first, she ignored him. Next she shouted abuse so he in turn ignored her. Suddenly she leapt up from her chair and started physically lashing out at him. Hovering in the background by the pool house, his guards quickly sprinted towards the small woman, whose arms were wind-milling blows over Haribon’s frame.

  “It’s OK, it’s OK,” Haribon shouted at them. He saw the bodyguards hesitate; revolvers drawn.

  “Away,” he roared at them. They knew better than to disobey and backed off. Cara suddenly stopped. Startled, she looked up, Haribon’s hands clamped around her wrists like human handcuffs. “Let me begin,” he said between gritted teeth as Cara still struggled in his grip, “then when I get to the end, you tell me your side of the story and we can try to get justice…”

  “Justice? You’re just a gangster,” she jeered at him, but she had at least stopped resisting.

  “Doesn’t mean I don’t mete out vengeance when I’m crossed. And let me assure you it’s a damn sight faster than years in a court room.” He stared into her face then suddenly opened both his hands and freed her. His hands ran through his thick black hair and he readjusted the heavy rimmed shaded glasses that had been knocked askew.

  She slowly rubbed her wrists.

  “Now, please sit down.” Haribon gestured towards her chair with one hand as he used the other to straighten his clothes and tie.

  “And just a small correction, a gangster is an ignorant bully who uses violence as his only tool. I use my brain. Violence is my solution of last resort. He looked calmly at Cara and smiled. “Let me tell you how I first met Jonathan.” Thus he began giving Cara a brief resume of his times with Jonathan.

  Cara listened without interruption.

  “That’s how it was between us; how we started. Money doesn’t motivate him. He gets his kicks from figuring out the most direct and effective way to get things done,” Haribon explained.

  Cara remained expressionless.

  “Jonathan was the perfect tool; truly amoral. I, however, am not. A clash was inevitable,” said Haribon.

  “What’s any of this have to do with Bill?” Cara said coldly, speaking for the first time.

  “Because his death is what broke our relationship.” Cara flinched slightly.

  “I’m sorry, but you knew that. He’s gone.” Haribon looked intently into her eyes, searching for any flicker that might give Cara away.

  She relaxed a little. “He would have come back to me. Yes, I know he’s dead, but not how he died. Tell me.”

  “Do you understand the connection between Jonathan, McConnell, Riley, de Turris, Wood, and Kelso?” asked Haribon ignoring her request.

  She looked at him puzzled. “You mean apart from THE LAST COMPANY? Well, they all got Sam’s script, which apparently is the kiss of death. As if you don’t know. Wood, Kelso, Riley, de Turris and his daughter are all dead.”

  Both answers shocked Haribon, but his poker face didn’t betray it. He and the banker Rafael knew very well what bound these people. He had wanted to see Cara’s reaction to him naming each member of the group. However he knew nothing about a script and why would she lie about the death of Mako and Marcus, whom he knew were at his hotel in Manila?

  “As for Jonathan,” she continued, “you know he is a cousin. Family or not, I just thank God we were never close. I knew he had come to work for McConnell. Saw him a few times. He dog-sat my pug occasionally.”

  Haribon sighed, “Jonathan and small dogs.”

  “Robert Kelso’s partner came to see me. He showed me photos the police in Cannes gave him, saying they were of the man that killed Robert and probably Marcus and the girl. It was Jonathan.” Haribon summoned the guards to request Cara’s mobile that they had taken from her purse. He looked at the phone, “Forgive me, it appears you have a message from his cell whilst you were… in transit. Turn the speaker on,” Haribon directed Cara, “You may not want to hear but I do.”

  Cara nodded. She dialed her message service. She was surprised though that the voice was not Jonathan’s.

  “This is Benjamin. Jonathan is no longer living at Mr. McConnell’s guest house and left behind his phone that Mr. McConnell owns and pays for. I accessed your number. He left abruptly taking just his passport and his old blue and yellow jump suit. I suspect he has gone looking for a job as he is no longer welcome here. Out of courtesy and before I burn the rest of his belongings, I thought I should see first if you as his only relative, want to send a courier to get any of it.”

  “He’s left McConnell? First I’ve heard of that. As far as Jonathan’s stuff, forget it,” said Cara flatly.

  Haribon studied her face for any other reaction. There was none. That message had probably saved Haribon’s life. His men had hacked her phone and listened to the message while Cara was en route in Haribon’s private jet.

  “Now, he continued, “did you know de Turris, McConnell, and I first got together in the rain on a movie set nearly 40 years ago?” He proceeded to tell a shocked Cara about APOCALYPSE NOW, the rock fall and the shells filled with treasure.

  As he was talking, two figures emerged from the main house. A huge man gently leading an elderly woman. The driver sto
od still while Haribon beckoned her to join them.

  “You met them?” he asked, momentarily breaking off his conversation with Cara and turning to Consuela. She nodded.

  “Cara, this is Consuela Imee Ramon. I consider Consuela part of my family… indeed she helped raise me.” Consuela smiled and sat down, resting her cane against her knee.

  “Firstly, I should say how sorry I am for your loss. Even though it was so long ago now, I too have suffered,” she started softly to Cara.

  “May I join you?” she asked quietly. Cara nodded.

  The old lady leaned forward and told Cara about the secrets of her youth and the maps and caves dotted all over the Philippine archipelago.

  “Once I had escaped and the war ended, I came to work for Haribon’s mother. My job was to raise him. I thought my secret knowledge of the caves and maps was safe until his father Jorge found out. He thought he could bargain with Marcos for my information. Instead the President just took me, to use me for my knowledge. Years later Haribon and I reconnected. It seemed we needed each other.”

  Haribon broke into the conversation, “I had just reached the part where McConnell, de Turris, and I caught our first glimpse inside that cave.”

  Consuela looked back to Cara. “The cave… ah yes…” She looked affectionately at Haribon. “This man learned that particular period of our recent history from me. He recognized at once the significance of the 16 petaled chrysanthemum on the side of the shells. It was the emblem of the Japanese Emperor so whatever was hidden in the cave must have been carried out in his name, if not perhaps with his knowledge.

  Japanese buried treasure is part and parcel of the fairy stories told to all Filipino children, as much the core of their myths and legends as the story of the bamboo shoot creation of Adam and Eve.”

  She looked at Cara who nodded; she had heard the same stories at her own father’s knee.

  “Yamashita… So, you stumbled across a big find?” Cara asked. “I still don’t see how Bill’s death fits in?”

  “Those three young men, Haribon, Stefan de Turris, and Louis McConnell, had indeed discovered one of the legendary hiding places of Yamashita’s Gold,” said Consuela.

  “Imagine their horror and frustration as they watched another rock fall bury it again before they could do anything. They had to become partners; bound by this secret, they began to make plans to return and recover the rest…” She turned to Haribon, “When you found me years after I left your parents, how much did you have from the shells that fell from the cave?”

  “Nothing, maybe $10-$12million.”

  “In 1978 that was not nothing!” Cara said with shock.

  “Cara, I have the deepest respect for money. What I meant was after talking with Consuela we knew it was nothing in comparison to what we might possibly find there.”

  “Why not just go back and dig it up?” asked Cara.

  “Our beloved President Marcos,” said Consuela, a hint of disgust in her voice. “He knew all too well about Yamashita’s Gold. He had systematically taken a cut every time anyone found anything. If you were powerful enough, like the Americans at the beginning of the digs after the Second World War, or one of his cronies, Marcos took a modest share. Anyone else…” She just left the sentence hanging.

  “No one dug up so much as a drain without the President looking over their shoulder,” continued Haribon. “With my family history,” he said glancing over at Consuela, “there’s no doubt of the outcome. The jackal of Malacañang Palace would have picked the cave clean of everything. All that would have remained are the bodies of the first people to have dug it as well as McConnell, de Turris, and me. So, we waited until he was dead and buried. But wolves still prowled in the world of politics. We needed something that would hide what we really wanted to do.”

  “THE LAST COMPANY,” breathed Cara.

  “Correct,” responded Haribon. “It took years of planning before we could set up that movie. Sure, Marcos was history but many of his former cronies weren’t.”

  “But what happened in the intervening years?” queried Cara. “Louis took his share of that first money and started his talent agency. I got into construction and de Turris bought a partnership in a film bonding company. We built our own lives, waiting for the chance to return.

  Louis began to set up a production. It had to look absolutely genuine. He put together a young and eager crew, hired just about everyone from an aging star down to the clapper loader. The key was Kelso. He was the one with the experience, enough to silence any doubters. Louis and Stefan convinced me that Kelso was on board. In addition, a few other crucial people needed to be paid when it was over. We were certain we could pull this off.

  Stefan, who by now was running the bond company, told us to find a small local bank and open accounts for ourselves and everyone on the production both here and at their home bank. Standard practice. During the shoot the accounts would operate normally. Once the shoot ended, some of the accounts would remain live but be converted into numbered accounts, though still ostensibly held by those individuals. Jonathan did some digging and found a manager at the local bank who had a few secrets of his own. At last everything was set.

  Cara listened in silence waiting for the ending she didn’t want to hear as Haribon thought back to the terror of the first day in the cave.

  63

  SET OF THE LAST COMPANY, THE CAVE, PAGSANJAN

  AUGUST 1997

  The team of men were standing, staring into the blackness. The work had taken over a week. At last Haribon’s crew with its diggers and drills had managed to clear the rubble outside the cave revealing a dark echoing chamber.

  Below in the valley the rest of the crew of THE LAST COMPANY were working on the day’s set-ups, blissfully unaware of the true purpose of the excavation work at the great rock.

  “Fire them up,” said Haribon. “No one moves until I say so.” The generators spluttered to life and the arc lights the men had dragged to the opening threw white light into the void.

  The small chamber contained an empty metal box lying open on its side and the remains of a broken wooden crate that held artillery shells. Both stood close to the entrance next to a tarpaulin-shrouded machine gun. Scattered over the floor that sloped toward the exit were many skeletons and three brass shells.

  Haribon crossed himself. Everyone hung back as he slowly entered the cave. He reached down and lifted up a shell and shook it. It rattled like a maraca. He then picked up the metal box. Inside was a large piece of waxed parchment that lifted his crushing disappointment at the bareness of the cave.

  Someone was planning to come back, he thought to himself as he unrolled the map. He looked back at the skeletal remains of the man that had lain next to the shell crate and the box with the map.

  He was a Japanese major. “So, no honor amongst thieves,” Haribon said dryly. “This is now our key,” he said to the others as he raised the waxed scroll.”

  Haribon was confident Consuela would make sense of the mishmash of symbols and numbers. At last a reward for patience and resolve. Suddenly there was a crack followed by a cry for help. One of his men had edged along the far wall well away from the remains. The ground underneath him had given way and he was sinking into a pit of loose, fine sand. Within moments the panic-stricken man was stuck fast up to his waist. Death and suffocation seemed seconds away.

  “I said to stay back,” roared Haribon. “This whole place will be booby-trapped.”

  He spread-eagled his arms holding back his men who were eager to rush to their stricken colleague’s aid.

  “Stay still, Roxas, moving makes you sink faster,” he said to the man as evenly as possible. “Calm. Now deep breaths… gently try and raise your arms and hold them out like you are floating,” Haribon said, making the same motion himself hoping to encourage the man. He glanced back at the others. “Fetch me that rope,” he nodded at the pile of tools and equipment by the entrance.

  The look of fear on Roxas’ face gradually
changed to one of relief as his descent halted. “It’s okay,” he replied. “I’ve stopped. I’ve found something to stand on.”

  Roxas barely heard the ‘click’ as the pin of the small anti-personnel mine engaged. It was one of dozens that littered the base of the trap-pit along with ball bearings, nuts and bolts. The explosion spewed out sand and shards of metal that flayed the walls with such force that anyone within ten feet would have been shredded. The top half of Roxas’ torso flopped like a rag doll against the rock wall, his legs still held in the sand.

  That night, the map lay unfurled before them on the table at Haribon’s small house in Pagsanjan. Lit by three desk lamps, it clearly depicted both the small cave they had uncovered as well as a far larger chamber below. The waxed parchment was covered in small, spidery-like icons and signs, evidently drawn by a weak and trembling hand. Haribon leaned over Consuela as she sat and studied the document.

  “What does it say?” he asked her anxiously.

  He knew that starting to dig in that cave was suicide unless they could understand every cipher.

  “This is most important,” she murmured as her gnarled index-finger knuckle rested on a small Japanese symbol. “It’s the fulcrum point from which all measurements and angles are taken. Quite simple, that icon, is the Kanji symbol for balance. It’s common on these maps. It is one of a number of Chinese characters also used in Japanese.”

  She took a small sip from her silver flask. “Remember your initial disappointment when you saw that tiny cave? I told you it would be like that. These complex hidden vaults are what protected all of Yamashita’s sites. I worked on countless caves where people had stumbled about, not understanding that the treasure they hunted for lay either beneath their feet, above their head or behind a fake wall. We are lucky, this map…”