by Tom Anthony
Hargens got back to the Hotel Thayer just as early breakfast was being served. He was not tired, his body still on Western Pacific time, twelve time zones out of phase. He would get tired later, but now he was too excited. He went through the buffet line and sat down alone at a table for two by the window, the Hudson far below seeming not to move. Downs walked over and they exchanged firm handshakes and a kind of masculine half-hug.
“Thanks for being here,” Downs said.
“Thanks for pulling me back.” Hargens was quiet and sincere. “You really harassed me into making the trip, or I wouldn’t be here.” The weekend was turning out to be more meaningful for him than he had anticipated. “But I have to admit, a football weekend here is really something to see.”
“Luke, do you remember where you were on the day the last helicopter left Saigon?” Downs was ready to talk.
“I was already a lifer and back in the States, in the Career Course at Benning. Where were you?”
“I was teaching here at West Point before I got out of the army and started at DOS. Thornton was here teaching then too, German language.”
“So tell me, Charlie, what is it that’s eating you up?”
“OK, here it is. Some Turk, a smart, determined guy named Mahir Hakki, is carrying five million in cash from Syria into Mindanao. Al Qaeda intends to finance an Islamic revolution.”
“Oh boy-they could do a lot with that. Like win the war. So why don’t you just have your CIA boys take him out?”
“Can’t. The President doesn’t want to hear about it. He’s in too much trouble overseas already. Too much going on. And President Cayton of the Philippines can’t tell his guys the whole story. They’d just keep the money and finance themselves or, worse, the insurrection. We need a consultant we can trust.”
Hargens brought Downs up to date. “OK. I get you. I had dinner with Thornton last week in Manila. He lives in Mindanao, owns a small construction company there.”
“I had our guys check him out, Luke. He still looks like a Ranger.”
“He always kept in shape; not that big but he wrestled, played football. The girls always liked him.”
“Yeah, he liked them too; part of his problem. Do you think we could get him one more time?”
“I don’t know. He’s living well now, never did get married again. The last time I saw him he was wearing a safari suit with some kind of bead necklace and looking ten years younger than you Washington types, still has blond hair. It would take some convincing. He thinks you don’t trust him after what happened in Eastern Europe.”
The two old roommates grew quiet for a moment, gazing down at the Hudson, silent and gray, remembering. Then Downs continued, cautious because he was speaking out of school, crossing department boundaries with an unauthorized plan. “Luke,” he started slowly, but then decided just to lay it all out. “We need Thornton. The CIA informed the State Department that Al Qaeda intends to instigate revolts and stage terrorist attacks simultaneously in several countries within the next month or two, and to set off dirty nuclear weapons within the U.S. at the same time. Their theory is that if we’re kept busy at home, we won’t have the will or the means to handle other conflicts in the world at the same time.”
“They may be right. Glad you D.C. guys are wising up.”
Downs continued, ignoring Hargens’ sarcasm, “We know that Al Qaeda is sending the cash from a source in Syria into Mindanao very soon. They want to create chaos, but we don’t know exactly how they intend to do it, or how they plan to get the money to Kumander Ali, the leader of the rebels. It’s enough to be the catalyst for a revolution in a poor country if they use it effectively, or should I say if they corrupt enough people.”
Hargens took the opportunity to needle Downs. “Why Thornton? Why don’t your DOS buddies negotiate with the rebels, give them the opportunity to screw up in yet another country they know nothing about?” He hit a sore point.
“I’m not fooling around.” Downs said testily. “But you hit the nail on the head. State and Defense agree this is not an assignment for the CIA. There is already a huge stink about those few dozen Special Forces troops from your JUSMAG tromping around in the jungle over there. If it got out that we’d involved the CIA in Muslim Mindanao, it would cause so much trouble it could easily escalate the civil war-or at least cause enough controversy to get the wrong guy elected president there. Can you imagine ‘Yankee go home’ demonstrations in Manila?”
Hargens got serious too, “Yes, I can. We’ve had riots already, right under my window at the embassy. The new generation always forgets the sacrifices of the old. So what do you want me to do?”
“Using your JUSMAG Command in Manila, persuade Thornton to create a small team, recruit a few locals if he has to-you can help him-and take out the Turk. Just do that, quietly. Then the Philippine Army can win the civil war on the ground.”
Downs continued. “Luke, my contacts tell me that local papers have reported U.S. troops are moving into Davao City proper; that’s not a very good idea, you know. They have no real mission. They’ll just be targets hanging around the bars when off duty, and probably screw up the peace that exists there now. You have a problem.”
Hargens followed Downs’ downward gaze toward the distant river, then faced his friend and said quietly, “We all have a problem.”
“Yeah, I know, but you’re assigned there, and it’s happening on your watch. Don’t lose the Philippines. MacArthur would get down off his statue and come after both of us.” Downs paused a moment, and his tone changed. “Come on, let’s walk up the hill.”
“It might be a long time until we meet again. What else can I do for you before one of us gets buried here?”
“Luke, we need to have Thornton take out the Turk. He’s the right guy in the right place. He’s done it before for me. You, JUSMAG, give him the support he needs on the ground. Let him keep the cash. Nobody here, or in the Philippine government, would need to know about it.”
“I get it. All this is just between you and me, right?”
“Right. Thornton can make it happen. Wonder what he’s doing right now.”
3
The Lady Love
The Lady Love, a videoke beer bar, was set between the Christ Our Savior pawnshop and the Jesus Is God ink cartridge refill station in downtown Davao City, Mindanao. During the day, the Lady Love could hardly be noticed. Its unpainted door had unpainted cardboard windows. A banded stack of partially rusted corrugated steel roofing sheets leaned against the wall beside the doorway. Candy peddlers moved in front of the place among the parked vehicles and along the sidewalk offering their sweet wares with smiling, toothless grins. Street hawkers offered to sell places to park. For a few pesos they would not scratch patrons’ cars with a key or a knife while they were away. But at night, the pink neon sign was turned on and its pale glow made the place look cozy and inviting in contrast to the darker surroundings. Inside, a long wooden bar ran down the entire left side, tended by Morris O’Neil, a moderately grouchy Irishman who owned the place and promoted it especially to foreigners, using a video karaoke theme. The high bar stools were comfortable, and a quorum of regular expats, the single guys at least, would show up and complain, network their business deals, or promote their latest scams.
Morris poured the beer. His waitresses could serve drinks, but he controlled the cash. Morris was now in his twelfth year of paradise and along the way, as a matter of course, had married a Filipina. But now divorced for some years, he made do for feminine company with his pick of the young dance girls and waitresses he hired. At the bar he put in his time listening to the guys across the flat wooden confessional; it seemed they all had basically the same story, and he could recite his stock answers back to them while doing the business of delivering booze and burgers.
Thomas Thornton, a bit tipsy, sat at the round corner table reserved for regulars with Hank Starke, his foreman in the construction company Thornton had started when he arrived in Mindanao some years back. T
hornton and Starke went back a long way together, back to the job they had done for Charlie Downs that had gone so sour. Since then they had met others of similar disposition from sundry national origins who eventually found their way to the Lady Love on Claveria Street.
Wolfgang Moser, a German national from the former German Democratic Republic who had washed up on the beaches of Mindanao after the end of the Cold War, occupied a bar stool near the table. Moser was now a DJ. with his own radio program on a local station. He completed the trio who met nearly every afternoon at the Lady Love.
Thornton kept up with the local news by reading the free copy of the Mindanao Times tucked into a rack on the wall. Today’s front page reported that the popular mayor of Davao City, Eduardo Fuentes, interested in improving the city’s cash flow from tourism, had recently approved through a city council he greatly influenced, if not controlled, a new ordinance permitting nude dancing, as long as the girls were not minors. Thornton raised his voice so O’Neil could hear him behind the bar. “See this? You should do your part to spruce up things around here.”
“I’m making my best efforts to improve the scenery,” Morris answered, then told him about the great-looking twins who had shown up recently, shortly before business hours. He had hired the two girls on the spot to work at the bar as entertainers. Only one of them had a birth certificate verifying that she had attained her eighteenth year, and hers was dated the month before. The other had no documents, and since one would not stay without the other, he turned them both away, with regrets. The next day they came back, with good photocopies of two documents, proving that Jade and Jasmine were born on the same day. Forged? Morris did not care. He filed the copies, and if there were ever any police questions, the documents, and a few free beers, would probably resolve the issue.
Thornton was curious to see if Morris would adopt the hubo hubo (completely nude) trend or stay more sedate for a conservative clientele. “So, what do you have them doing?”
“The twins put on a good show, Southeastern Asia style, you know.”
“You mean, a short step from prostitute?” Starke wanted to know the score.
“Not at all. It’s a line they never cross.” Morris had set the ground rules. “I think they’re sisters, and they’re definitely more than just good entertainment; they’re tastefully erotic and provocative, yet almost untouchable, if you know what I mean.”
“You have to keep it conservative, you know.” Moser was fishing. He put down the newspaper to get into the conversation.
Morris’ heavy black eyebrows rose at that. “Conservative? Any ‘conservatives’ walking along this street at night are not going to come in here in the first place. We’ll have a good show, but not get too naughty. Wait and see.” O’Neil slapped the ceiling fan mounted above the bar to get it to work and returned to washing beer mugs, checking for lipstick smears.
“We have time. We’ll see.” Thornton decided to stay for a while and ordered another pitcher of beer, sharing it with Starke and Moser.
To make a stage, Morris had raised a curved platform a foot off the floor in the far rear corner opposite the bar. The warm-up act started, as a plump girl with hairy ankles bounced to a Beyoncé number. “Some of the guys like her, what do I care?” Morris told the bar in general and slapped the fan again.
The big girl left the stage, and softer music started. A statuesque young woman appeared, languidly rotating in front of a full-length mirror as “Greensleeves” played through two speakers bolted to the ceiling at opposite corners of the dance area. She danced to a slow instrumental version of the old classic, leisurely removing her clothing while twirling slowly in front of a mirror until she was wearing nothing but bright green sleeves that ran from her fingertips not quite up to her shoulder. The rest of her bare body shimmered from a light coat of extra virgin olive oil thinly spread on her slim torso. Then, miraculously, she stepped through the mirror and continued her dance back and forth through her own reflection until she split into two identical and discrete images of herself. Long legs entwined and two arms with green sleeves caressed two naked, mocha tan arms as she seemed to stroke her own image. Jade wore one of the green sleeves on her left arm; Jasmine wore the other on her right. When the soft, green filtered light reflected off their shimmering bodies, the image of one young woman became two as they rotated skillfully, dancing in small circles, intertwined with each other, sometimes one and sometimes two distinct forms, using the green sleeves to conceal, then to emphasize their small breasts and hard nipples. While they danced, each let her nearly waist-length, pure black hair swing tantalizingly across the other’s naked body until the music ended and a brief silence filled the room.
Backstage, after they had showered and toweled off the olive oil and perspiration, replacing the moisture with fragrant Oriental perfumes, the two dressed in bright red mini skirts, black shoes with six-inch-high spike heels and sheer, black silk shirts with long sleeves fashionably rolled up a few folds and the top two buttons unbuttoned. The twins helped out at the bar between dances, serving beers and brandy. With the purchase of a full bottle of Emperador for twenty bucks or the peso equivalent, one or both of the twins might join customers in the separate videoke rooms in the back to sing together, if they were in the mood. Maybe some touching went on sometimes, almost accidental, if they met a nice guy. They were tall for Mindanao girls—taller than the short, squat Morris, for example—but thin and narrow across the shoulders, which accentuated the firm points under their blouses. They never wore bras. The twins seemed to dance mostly for fun, but they got better tips whenever they served drinks or danced with the guys and got a little bit too close to them. The Lady Love, after all, was not famous as a strip club; it was more of a meeting place for a clique of foreigners.
This night, Starke, using his best manners, stood when the twins returned, clapped, and with a sweeping gesture invited them to sit. As it was still early and not busy, they accepted. Jade pushed in between Thornton and Starke to sit, her mini skirt climbing her thigh. There was little room for Jasmine to sit, but, obliging, Thornton loaned her his knee as Morris delivered four shots of Jack Daniels, one of which Jade accidentally spilled almost immediately on Thornton’s lap, making them all laugh.
The door to the outside opened, causing Thornton to shade his eyes as two men walked toward him. He looked up sleepily, straightened himself a bit but continued to sit.
Hargens squinted for a moment, his vision adjusting as he and another man, also in civilian clothes, approached Thornton’s corner table.
Thornton recognized his old West Point roommate and shouted, “Luke! How the hell did you find me?”
“Hey. You told me, Davao City.”
“You know where I live, but here? Let me guess, from our spook ex-roommate, Charlie Downs.”
“Partly. It was easy, you cut a broad swath and you leave a bloody trail.”
“It was Downs.”
“Well, of course he has his own sources. Last week at our reunion, which you missed by the way, I retold a few of the stories you told me in Manila and nothing surprised him. He must have had his guys check on you down here. Sorry to interrupt your ‘duties.’ But, let me introduce Major Hayes, our military attaché temporarily assigned to the consulate here in town. Hayes, my oldest friend, Thomas Thornton.”
“How do you do, Mister Thornton.” Hayes thought for a moment. “Funny, I haven’t seen you around town.”
“I thought the same thing, maybe we run in different circles.”
Thornton introduced the others. “Gentlemen and soldiers, meet Hank Starke, retired army sergeant. Luke, you remember Downs talking about him. He worked in Eastern Europe with me. Runs my construction projects here.”
Starke, nuzzling with the dancers and drinking beer, gave a casual salute and popped off with a loud, “Hooah, General!”
“And my other friends, leaning against the bar over there are Wolfgang Moser, our local German DJ., and Morris O’Neil, this is his place.” Mose
r tipped an imaginary hat toward the men, and O’Neil nodded and went back to drying glasses.
“So what brought you to Mindanao, Luke? Your first time in Davao, and no advance notice?”
“You. We have some catching up to do, but it doesn’t look like you have much room for us.” Hargens checked out the dancers, who Thornton had not bothered to introduce.
“Anyway, it was time for me to make a trip to Mindanao. Can we have a talk?” The girl sitting on Thornton’s lap was too interested in their conversation for Hargens.
Thornton disengaged himself and stood up. “Sure. You buy the beer,” and moved with Hargens to the far end of the bar. Major Hayes pulled up a stool beside them, briefly exposing a holstered pistol as he sat, which explained the reason he was wearing a sport coat in the tropics.
“When Downs and I met last week at the Point, we talked about you. Downs had an idea. Now that I see you on your turf, I have the gut feeling he was right. So please listen to me. We have a deal for you, working for us. Major Hayes would be your point of contact. Interested?”
“Maybe. What’s the deal?”
Hargens took command and started in his official briefing voice. “Al Qaeda has infiltrated Mindanao, supporting the insurgents. We need someone who travels in different circles, as you say, someone we can trust, someone who can do what you did in Eastern Europe, before you dropped out of sight.”