“Why are we going this way… and who the hell are you?” Mako asked.
“Heaven and hell,” replied the voice in the back. “And it’s Rizal.” They pulled up at the foot of a tall rock. Marcus’ attention was held by the sight in front of them. “It’s the cave where they built a set for THE LAST COMPANY,” Marcus began, before a wave from Rizal’s gun silenced him, ordering them out of the car.
“I can’t see any opening. Are you sure, Marcus?” whispered Mako.
“Yes. The main production units were below in the valley. Somewhere up here they were digging out a cave for a scene…”
The sun was arcing back towards the horizon as Rizal deftly pulled a large crowbar from the undergrowth and tossed it at Marcus. “Now move that rock,” he said nodding at one nearby and pointing the gun directly at Mako.
With a heave, Marcus rolled the boulder to one side. Rizal motioned his gun towards the small opening Marcus had created, making it perfectly clear they were expected to go in.
Marcus took Mako’s hand and squeezed it as they crouched under the low entrance. They found themselves in a cave, pitch-black save for the sliver of light coming from the entrance. Rizal pulled a couple of flashlights out of his hip pocket and tossed them at Marcus’ feet.
“Compliments of Haribon. Enjoy your tour,” he laughed and turned away. Before they knew it, the boulder was rolled back over the entrance leaving them in complete darkness.
“Buried in a cave.” Mako spun around, “Fuck you,” she yelled at the blocked entrance… “and screw Harry Bourne too,” she added, “whoever he is.”
They heard the engine start then the rumble of their 4x4 growing fainter until there was silence.
“It doesn’t make sense… why kill us now?” said Marcus.
“Because they can,” hissed Mako.
“Hold it together,” reassured Marcus as his arms encircled her gently. “This is not how it ends,” but he couldn’t hide the doubt in his voice. They were in lethal danger and both knew it.
He reached down to the dirt and felt for the flashlights. He gav Mako one and switched his on.
“Holy shit…,” Her expression was as shocked as Marcus’.
They were standing on the top section of a vast cavern, the floor a frightening lattice work of holes. In the cavern beneath their feet stood the rusting frames of countless trucks and military vehicles. The words of the old woman instantly came back to Marcus,
“There were 172 by the end…”
“We were all played like suckers,” exhaled Marcus.
As they swung their beams around the black void, Marcus saw something written on the far wall under the image of a painted crucifix.
On turning to make sure Mako had seen it as well, Marcus’ beam dropped to the floor, the thin shaft of light shining across the hole-riddled floor. The flashlight picked out something else though. No more than twenty feet away, lying on the ground and bound at the wrists and ankles, was the body of a man.
“Whoa!” Marcus said. He heard a muffled sound and saw the body move. Mako looked at Marcus and they slowly made their way over to the huddled mass.
As they approached the body and the crucifix above that had been crudely painted against the rock-face, Marcus could just make out an inscription.
‘R.I.P. Bill Baines. I am sorry.”
As Marcus’ flashlight beam licked across the wall beside the cross, something glinted, nestling in a small crevice. It was a nickel-plated revolver, its snub-nosed barrel pointing down at the shape lying on the ground.
Tentatively Marcus leaned to turn the body over. As he did so the man’s eyes flew open and blazed at him from above his taped mouth. Marcus jumped back.
“Shit!” he exclaimed.
They both recognized the man instantly. It was the bastard who had attacked them in Switzerland.
Mako’s mouth dropped open in shock. Pinned to the man’s grimy clothing was a handwritten note. “I executed Bill Baines.”
66
PAGSANJAN, PHILIPPINES
It was 10:00 a.m. and Haribon and guests were leaving the house in the city to go to his home in Pagsanjan. “I need your help to tie up some loose ends, then you can go home,” he said quietly to Cara, thinking about the scripts from the hotel he had read the night before and still frustrated at being unable to unlock the USB.
Datu drove the Toyota Land Cruiser. Consuela sat with Cara in the back. Cara said nothing for the entire journey.
The conversation with Haribon yesterday had hurt her, but at least there was no more doubt, and she knew the truth about how Bill died. Her fury at Jonathan was raw and painful. A fellow Filipino, even worse her own cousin and someone whom she had confided in when they had first met. He was an assassin who had calmly shot her husband and thought no more about it. He worked for Louis McConnell. Louis had amassed a fortune and lied to her from the day they met. All she wanted now was to get away from this place and to face these two men one final time.
For Haribon, Cara’s initial reaction had confirmed what the banker Rafael Satow had blurted out to him while tied up in the back of the limousine. The money Louis and Stefan had been so insistent needed to be paid by Golden Eagle Trust to the individual Philippine accounts did not end up in the hands he had intended.
Cara had admitted to some hush money, but it was a pittance. Sam Wood had clearly only received one payment. So how much had the late Robert Kelso and the seemingly lucky-to-be-alive Marcus Riley received? And how much had de Turris and McConnell stolen?
* * *
Situated about a mile to the north of the village of Pagsanjan, Haribon’s house was modest in size for such a rich man. The contents and furnishings of Haribon’s home were personal and intimate, small mementos salvaged from his youth. There was a silver-framed black-and-white photo of a young woman squinting into the sunlight with a baby in her arms, a signed photograph of Mr. Coppola on the set at Pagsanjan, a well-thumbed copy of Eleanor Coppola’s book NOTES ON THE MAKING OF APOCALYPSE NOW and an old baseball bat.
Just three bedrooms, a drawing room and a dining room but still with the traditional ‘two kitchens’; one for the owner, more a breakfast room with some modern appliances, and one at the back of the house. This was where the real meal preparation took place and where there was a bed for the cook to sleep.
Hidden from the road by thick ferns and Nipa palms, the garden was a riot of the local jasmine sampaguita, some red-spotted orchids and yellow flowered Nara trees. It was the opposite of the manicured lawns and formal flowerbeds of his more ostentatious house in Manila.
There was a small shack for Haribon’s bodyguards hidden in the grounds and a large shed next to it. The unkempt grass led down to the edge of the lagoon, where a small turquoise colored fishing boat with a torn white sun awning was moored. The craft leaned against its moorings and the rickety wooden dock that bent into the lagoon. Nearby floated a small Maule seaplane.
Datu drove the car to the front door and a tall man came out to greet them. “Rizal,” said Haribon. “Did you drop off both packages?”
Rizal nodded.
“And did you receive the package from the hotel concierge?” Rizal asked in turn. Haribon confirmed he had.
“Datu, take Mrs. Baines inside and see she is well looked after. I believe there is some lunch. Cara, Consuela, I’m afraid I cannot join you; Rizal and I have some business to attend to. We will be leaving again in a few hours.”
Cara had no idea what he was talking about and honestly didn’t care anymore. “Consuela, I’m tired. I am going to rest,” she said leaving untouched the meal prepared by the wild haired cook, Marites. Consuela decided she too would take a rest, but not before she had tasted some of the beautifully prepared food.
* * *
“Now Rizal, tell me everything,” said Haribon as they walked off towards the shed.
“As predicted Jonathan came in on the flight at Cebu City,” said Rizal much to his boss’ satisfaction.
In the first
year after the excavation, Haribon had needed to regularly smuggle tons of antiques and bullion out of the country for Stefan to deal with. Louis had been in charge of setting up a small cargo company that used an airport at Cebu City, to the south in the Visayan Islands. It had worked and over the years Louis certainly smuggled other goods out along with what they had taken from the cave in Pagsanjan; sometimes even legitimate freight.
The business was sold long ago. Haribon knew the airline’s colors were the same as on the jump suits. Once he heard the butler’s message on Cara’s phone, he guessed Louis must have ‘persuaded’ the new owners to let Jonathan occasionally hitch a ride back to the Philippines. Haribon smiled at the irony of McConnell’s butler inadvertently saving his life. Louis would have been furious.
* * *
“We saw him get out when the plane landed,” went on Rizal as they walked into the shed. “He tried to make a run for it. A touch of GHB and he went out like a light.”
Rizal turned on the light in the shed and there stood two vehicles, a Jeep and a large truck. The truck was the kind used for breakdown and recovery with a winch in the front and a mid-mounted crane as well as a large flatbed at the back.
“Anyone see you?” asked Haribon as he jumped onto the back of the truck joining Rizal who had started to check the mass of ropes and a huge wicker basket.
“Not anyone who would care. We threw him in the Maule. Flew back then dumped him in the cave. The gun and message exactly as you wanted. Done.”
“And your call to me after the surprise meeting with Lorne whatever-his-name in the hotel lobby. You did what I told you?” asked Haribon as they continued to check on the contents of the flat bed.
Rizal took a deep breath and nodded. He jumped down and wandered over to the front of the vehicle to inspect the winch.
“Good. And Marcus and Mako? Any trouble?”
“The guy kept his cool.”
“And the girl?”
“Cojones y fuego, balls and fire.” He slapped the winch. “It’s all ready to go, boss.” He switched off the light as they headed back to the house.
The scent from the garden filled the air that was gently stirred by six-bladed ceiling fans. Haribon sat at the bamboo and rattan dining table with his laptop. He looked at the screen with the locked message from the USB, the scripts he had read earlier on the table next to him. He now had Cara, Jonathan, Mako, and Marcus in Pagsanjan. He was sure at least one of them would give him some answers.
It was dusk when his driver, Datu, came in with the young muscle and side kick, Joselito.
“OK. We go,” said Haribon. “Rizal will follow later with Cara. Tell him to get Consuela to look at this when she wakes up,” he added pointing to the laptop.
* * *
Across town someone else was making final preparations, too.
67
PAGSANJAN, PHILIPPINES
After a fierce workout in the hotel garden followed by a cold shower, Lorne Maddox slid back the flimsy closet door to pick out the clothes needed for the rest of his day.
Tyler Gemmell’s requests for Lorne’s services were rare. When Lorne was at ‘work’, he favored a dark suit, white shirt and elegant tie to set off his toned frame and close-cropped hair. He found that formal dress added gravitas to his image and weight to his message; an authority figure in formal dress definitely provoked a greater sense of danger than a leather jacket and tight blue jeans.
It worked with that thug Rizal at the hotel in Manila. Lorne had been very ominous and equally clear. He was here to see Haribon Guinto. He would come unarmed. Rizal had no choice but to tell Lorne what Haribon’s plans were and who he and Joselito were going to collect from Cebu airport that afternoon.
“Your boss can play out his game,” whispered Lorne in Rizal’s ear “but this conversation is our little secret… oh and in case you want to run and tell anyone or I don’t succeed, neither your wife nor your daughter will see their next birthdays.”
After Rizal left, Lorne made a call to Tyler Gemmell. “They’ve got Jonathan.” There was a pause. “Understood,” Lorne said and hung up.
He laid out on the bed a pair of loose black silk trousers and a white, short-sleeved shirt. He pulled the right-hand pocket from the trousers inside out, so it jutted out from the leg like a white cotton ear. With the point of a box-knife, he deftly opened the two halves of the material that shaped the pocket as if he was shucking an oyster.
He placed a small role of surgical tape, a mini hacksaw and a pair of pliers on the bed by the clothes. Next, he picked up a
.25 caliber Guardian pistol. It weighed barely more than a couple of iPhones and at four inches from eyesight to barrel end, it was about the same length. Despite its extremely compact dimensions, it held six rounds in its squat rubber grip frame. With a bit more firepower than an equally sized .22, it packed a lethal punch at close range. He was about to make doubly sure.
Lorne withdrew the magazine and using his surgical glove– covered thumb, ejected all six cartridges into an ashtray. Using the tiny metal hacksaw, he carefully scored a small ‘X’ at the tip of all six slugs, ensuring their breakup on impact. At the distance he planned to shoot, the disintegrating round would mean any torso or head shot would be fatal. He reinserted the cartridges, snapped the magazine home and picked up the roll of duct tape.
He attached the gun high against his crotch on the inside of his right thigh and felt the cold steel as his testicles brushed against it. He had shaved off the hairs at the top of his leg while showering, not at the thought of the sting from the tape ripping off, but because the heavily matted curls would make the tape sag and he needed the gun to lay flat against his skin. In his experience, the macho attitude of even the most committed body searcher stopped short of the fork under the fly zipper. He admired his handywork in the mirror.
“Unarmed,” he smiled.
He put on his watch, buckled his belt, and then slid his hand through the open flap in his right-hand pocket to make sure the butt of the gun was positioned correctly for a swift withdrawal. Neatly placing the tools back in his bag, he shoved it in the closet. He glanced around the hotel room once more to check that nothing was left out that shouldn’t be. He blinked in the late afternoon sunshine filling the room and as an afterthought went into the bathroom, opened his washbag and smeared some sun cream over his face careful to remember the tops of his ears.
He slipped on titanium-framed sunglasses, strode purposefully out of the hotel and crossed the road to the river’s edge. He dropped down into the hired boat, pulled the cord on the outboard motor and pointing the small craft upstream, set out over the flowing water.
68
THE CAVE, PAGSANJAN
Several hours earlier Jonathan had slowly regained consciousness in the cave. He had no idea where he was; it was pitch black. He felt nauseous and there was a salty taste in his mouth. GHB. He knew that drug, he himself had used the instant sedative to take out uncooperative lorry drivers when hijacking their loads.
His first thought was not where he’d been dumped, but why he wasn’t dead. When Rizal caught him at the small airport, he had expected a quick twist of a blade or pull of a trigger, not a blow on the back of the head followed by a few drops of liquid into his slack-jawed mouth. Far too much effort had gone into shoving him in here alive.
Yet he could not understand how Haribon had found him so soon. He had used the secure route of the cargo plane to avoid all customs and immigration and it had always worked so effectively in the past.
He assessed his own situation. He was bound hand and foot lying on a stone floor. The blackness was unrelenting, even with his eyes now accustomed to the dark and his retinas fully dilated; no light was getting in.
Trying to sit up, with his heels pushing at the dirt to give him traction, some pebbles rolled across the floor. A moment later he heard a distant clang from below as the stones fell through a hole in the floor and struck metal. In that instant Jonathan knew exactly where he was
. The last time he had been here loyalties had changed and he had killed a man.
After the footage had been stolen from the set of THE LAST COMPANY, Jonathan had specifically targeted Bill Baines with details of the ransom demands. He was certain how Bill would react. Sure enough Baines and his three-man crew arrived at the cave’s outhouse entrance. “Just you, inside,” a masked Jonathan motioned to Bill with a gun. The stuntman walked into the shed, unable to see into the main cave as the entrance was covered.
“OK, I did as you asked,” said Bill calmly to the masked man in front of him, “My three guys are outside. Now quit this screwing around, give us back the film and I’ll get you some money… but you can forget a quarter of a million bucks. Enough of this bullshit.”
“Give those Kanos outside one day’s worth of rushes as a gesture of goodwill. Tell them that my partners are keeping the rest as insurance and you’re staying here. If they don’t come back with the money, we burn you both. And it’s still $250,000.”
Bill went outside, handing over what Jonathan gave him.
“He’s an amateur, doesn’t frighten me,” Bill said to his friends. “He’s nearly a goddamn midget, for chrissakes, but I don’t know where his mates are and we can’t risk having them destroy the footage. Tell Marcus to stay calm and I’ll negotiate on the price,” he assured them before returning to the big shed.
Leaning calmly against the shed wall, without an inkling of the danger he was in, Bill heard his guys walk away.
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