“Hmmm. That’s an interesting idea. Might work. I’ll look into that, maybe run it by some people. Meantime, don’t reject my proposition too hastily. Take a little time, give it due consideration. Could be easy money for just a couple months’ work. The Philippines are not a hot zone, you know, not a situation teeming with hostiles. The New People’s Army isn’t actually an effective armed force, more like a dangerous political opposition group. You’d be doing subversion, not a shooting war.” He checked his watch. “My goodness, how time does fly,” he said. “Gotta run, got a plane to catch back to D.C. Thanks for your time, Jake. Good to see you again after all these years. Think about my offer. I’ll be in touch.”
My switch from booze to coffee had rendered him fit to drive, and our discussion seemed to have lifted his spirits. He decisively rose to his feet, I walked him to the back door, and he strode briskly out to his rental car. He climbed in, backed it out onto Malibu Drive, shot me a thumbs-up and took off toward Highway 101, next stop LAX.
I returned to my living room and admired my priceless Naheen carpet, a memento from my gig with the Shah in Iran. I sauntered out onto my deck, eased onto one of the lounge chairs and settled back into the comfy, sun-warmed pad. I shaded my eyes against the glare to follow for a few minutes the long Pacific swell as it rolled in, mounded up, toppled over and crashed foamy over the sand. I took a deep inhale of crisp, kelpy sea breeze. I got up, leaned on the railing and gazed down at a bevy of bikinied girls stretched out on bright beach towels, having an animated discussion while soaking up the dwindling afternoon autumn rays. I tracked a couple of young surfers bobbing on their boards down the way, frantically paddling and mounting up to catch what they hoped was The Big One. Newbies, making progress on their technique on five-footers, every now and then riding one in with no wipeout. It wasn’t too late in the day to get my own board out…
I thought about all the stuff I’d done since my CIA assignment in 1975. I thought about the items in my souvenir drawer: Black pajamas and red ball point pen from the Khmer Rouge. The uncut diamond from Mr. Poon. The Patek Phillippe wrist watch from the Shah. The DeLorean DMC-12 Maggie Thatcher sent me that I’d passed along to Steve Spielberg. I thought about Dana Wehrli.
Life after my Cambodia horror story had been good, I had to admit, better than good. The only thing I truly missed about my Ranger career was the action, and our military hadn’t been involved in much of that post-Nam. The Grenada invasion briefly took me back to my military days and reminded me what it was like, but I saw as much U. S. military action during that short week as most Rangers had seen anywhere, post-Nam. On the other hand, my free-lancing had taken me into interesting action a-plenty.
Dammit, the sonofabitch had a point. Ten years existing as an officer in the shrunken, scaled-back peacetime Army, devoting my energies to politicking my way to the next promotion, would have sent me mental.
I suddenly had an inkling how the water must feel when it swirls away down a drain.
The Beginning of the Story
The bills were laid out on the desk, three discrete stacks of used $20, $50 and $100 bills in paper-taped packets. It made a sizeable heap, thanks to the smaller denominations. All in hundreds it wouldn’t have made much of an impression. “Everything’s there, $80,000, Jake,” said my lawyer/step-father, Evanston. “We counted it. Old bills, untraceable, at least by conventional methods. I suppose they could use radioactive markers or DNA, but I doubt they did.”
“Did they follow the procedure we stipulated?” I asked him.
“To the letter. A messenger wearing a hoodie. fake nose-mustache-and-glasses, and gloves came into the lobby, placed the suitcase in the elevator, poked the button for the floor above this one, and left, exchanging no words or other communication with anyone. We had a temp worker, wearing gloves, go up the stairs and get it from the elevator, take it out of sight of the security cameras and transfer it into a mailbag. He sent the suitcase down the elevator back to the lobby and took the mailbag to the stairwell, where he kicked it down to our floor. Another temp worker, wearing gloves and a hoodie, fetched it back here. Are you sure you aren’t overdoing your precautions?”
“Evanston, you know as well as I do the workings of the CIA. I don’t want to give anybody a link between me, this money and the CIA. Especially I don’t want Todd Sonarr to be able to prove I received this money from him. There’s a million ways that could be used against me, so I’ve insisted on oral agreements and instructions all along. I have enough misgivings about taking on this assignment as it is.”
EVANSTON’S LAWYER STORY
“This reminds me of one of those lawyer jokes that make the rounds,” said Evanston. “A lawyer is having a drink in a bar with an older colleague, and he says, ‘You’ve been in this business a long time. I’ve got an ethical dilemma. Maybe you can help me sort it out.’
‘Describe the situation, and we’ll see,’ says the other guy.
‘It was like this. I was sitting alone in my office late last night when this stranger bursts in. “People I know have worked with you, and they say you’re trustworthy,” the man says. “I’ve got one million dollars in untraceable bills in this briefcase. I want you to hold it for me overnight. Nobody knows I have it, and nobody knows I’ve been here. I’ll come get it in the morning, and I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for doing this.”
‘So I agreed, stowed the briefcase in my closet and returned to my work. Then I heard a horn, a screech of brakes and a loud thud outside. I looked out the window, and there was the guy who was just in the office, run over by a truck and sprawled out on the street, dead.’
‘Okay. So what’s your ethical dilemma?’
‘Should I tell my partners?’
“But, speaking of ethics, Jake, you’ve got this boodle of untraceable money here. Like I’ve told you in the past…”
“You can’t always be honest, but you must always to be legal,” I recited. “Don’t worry. I’ll declare it as income and pay the taxes. I just don’t want anybody to be able to connect me with the CIA. Including the CIA.”
*
Yes, I’d signed onto Todd Sonarr’s scheme to covertly help Ferdinand Marcos stay in power. A major motive was money, of course, as I had some deficits to cover, but big gigs like this one are few and far between, and the word gets around. For the sake of my so-called career, I couldn’t pass it up, despite my aversion to the CIA. Before I accepted the assignment I researched the Philippines as best I could, and it seemed a safe enough way to rehabilitate my crippled coffers, so I worked him up from his initial offer. According to the best public sources, on the face of it the Philippines is an allied country in good standing. They don’t seem to be facing an armed insurrection or a religious revolution. A contested election, yes, but they have a long history of those, and the country has been reasonably law-and-orderly for the past 20 years. I didn’t have a dog in that fight, so what the hell?
Sonarr didn’t want me to be seen at Langley, or anywhere around DC, so in early October he flew me back to New York City for a final briefing. I’d caught an early non-stop from LAX so arrived in late afternoon. As instructed, I took a cab from JFK to the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan and asked at the desk for Mr. Gladstone. “Yes, he’s expecting you, sir,” said the clerk. He gave me the room number and up I went.
Sonarr answered my rap on the door. He poked his head out the doorway and looked up and down the hall, “Nobody out there. Good. Come in, Jake,” he said, stepping aside, “come on in.” I did. He then shut the door quickly but quietly. It was a posh suite, could have passed for the display window of an upscale antique shop. He ushered me into the sitting area. “Get you a drink?” he offered.
“I could use some refreshment after eight hours in transit, sure.”
He motioned me to an armchair that one of the French Louis might have sat in, then filled two glasses with ice and Glenfiddich, his quaff of choice. Handing
me one, he plonked down on the tufted, buttery leather loveseat facing me. “Confusion to the enemy,” he said, hoisting his glass. I did likewise. “Jake, I am delighted that you chose to join our team for this mission. A great relief to all concerned.”
“After giving it some thought, it seemed like maybe I could help you out. Depending on what it is that you want done, of course. Now that I’m on board, how about telling me what I’m supposed to do.”
“Like I told you previously, we want to make sure that the Commies don’t steal the upcoming election from Ferdinand Marcos. We want to keep the Philippines firmly in our camp.”
“Okay, but what do you want me to do, specifically?”
“If we knew that, specifically, we’d just send somebody from the Company in to do it. I’m sending you over there because you have a knack for getting to the crux of difficult situations and then resolving them.”
“You mean I just go in there cold, and in a couple weeks I sort out a contested election taking place across 7,000 islands? Todd, I hope you haven’t been reading that CIA legend you fabricated for me. I’m not a superspy, and you know it.”
“Jake, I know exactly what you are and what you can do, and I’m confident you can do this. Above all, I know that I can count on you, when the chips are down, to do the right thing.”
“Fill me in on what you have in mind, and we’ll see. What cover are you sending me in under? What resources will I have? What back-up?”
“You’re going in as an investment banker and loan syndicator, a director and vice president of Thermite Holdings, a very private banking concern. We’ll use your old Cambodian a.k.a., Jack Philco. I’ve updated the documents. You will have credible credentials and an office here in New York, and I, Stokes Gladstone, president and managing director, will personally vouch for you. You will have a bank account you can draw on and an unlimited credit card. We will lay groundwork for you before you reach Manila. You’ll assess the situation, formulate some strategy, then get back to me. At that point, if it looks like a go, we’ll disclose your role to Marcos, and you will work with him, with the back-up of the Filipino army and secret service.”
“Why not just tell Marcos about me from the outset??
“Ummm … Ferdinand Marcos is a staunch ally of the United States, but we have reason to believe that he is not always forthcoming. Steele Bosserman and I thought it would be best if you did your own fact-finding at first. And that’s the beauty of your cover. The Philippine government is desperate for loans. You’ll be treated like royalty. You can ask any questions you want, and they’ll fall all over themselves to accommodate you. Not that you can necessarily trust their answers, but with your intel background that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Suppose they ask me questions? I don’t know anything about investment banking.”
“You don’t have to tell them anything. Bankers are the most discreet folks in the world. You’re sizing them up, not vice versa. Cards close to your vest. Mysterious smiles and nods. Loose lips sink ships. And if they make any inquiries, your office here will back you all the way. So you pump them for all the information you can get, and in return you tell them nothing.”
“What about coaching and costuming for the role?”
“Got that covered. We have good contacts in the big banking houses, and one of our guys will give you a tour and tutorial. As for costuming, the New York clothiers all are stocking winter fashions, so I’ve arranged for a tailor to outfit you with some tropical weight banker togs. You’ll have a room here in the Plaza for as long as the suits and the coaching take. It’s the kind of place high-powered investment bankers stay. Then you fly out to LA, get yourself straightened out and your affairs in order, and off you go to Manila. What we’ll do is put you up in a hotel in L.A., logical for a New York banker headed to Asia, just in case anybody in Manila does some back-checking. You can drive from there over to Malibu to take care of things.”
Sonarr had finished his drink. I’d barely begun mine. “Get you a refill, top you up?” he offered. Negative. He rose and went to the bar to pour himself one.
“Todd,” I said to his back, “I still don’t understand the urgency here. We’ve got a lot of allies in Asia—Japan, Taiwan, Singapore, Australia. A big presence in Guam, thousands of troops stationed in South Korea. What makes the Philippines so crucial?”
“Jake, few people appreciate the gravity of this situation. When the Commies took over Cam Ranh Bay in Nam, Subic and Clark became the most important American overseas bases. We’re paying $900 million a year in rents on those two bases, not to mention about twice that much in related expenditures. The Philippine government doesn’t want to see those hard currency revenues go away, and we sure as hell can’t lose those bases. You’re participating in a potential game changer here. If the Commies win this one, we lose control of the western Pacific, and everybody’s toast.”
*
So I spent several days in New York City. The weather was early-autumn crisp and clear, the leaves in Central Park just starting to turn—a pretty view from my room. I went in for initial measurements at the tailor, picked out luxurious light-weight linen and wool fabrics, and settled on conservative but form-flattering styles. The suits required two fitting sessions, but the tailors, Hong Kong Chinese, worked quickly. I dropped by Barney’s and Paul Stuart’s for shirts, ties and shoes that, they assured me, were what investment bankers in the Philippines sported that season. Should I ever have serious business dealings around LA, with that haberdashery I’d knock their socks off.
I spent one morning with Sonarr’s contact at one of the major investment banks, we’ll call him Rumford Rightway. He was a few years older than me, neither pudgy nor trim, and though his hair showed no grey, his hairline was in early stages of retreat. The picture windows in his corner office faced north and east, providing a 50-something floor view of Manhattan Island reaching away from Wall Street, the skyscrapers sharply outlined in the clear sunlight, reflections off the windows intense enough to give you a tan. On the other side, the port and river ran busy with commerce, and I could make out airliners swooping in on the approach path to JFK out on Long Island.
Apparently I wasn’t the first CIA operative to use “banker” as cover, because Rumford had a chalk-talk all prepared. He earnestly explained investment banking, a way different kind of deal from the black money legerdemain of Bank of Credit and Commerce International (or so I thought at the time—I had a lot to learn). Essentially it consists of assembling and organizing large and complex financial transactions, facilitating mergers and other corporate reorganizations, and acting as a broker or financial adviser for institutional clients. I’d be posing as a loan syndicator, which he told me involves bringing together consortiums of lending institutions for extremely large loans, for example to sovereign governments. In this case, the Philippine government would be under the impression I was going to get a bunch of big banks like Rumford’s together to lend them mountains of money. The Filipino officials would take great pains to impress me that the principal was safe and would be fully paid back with interest in timely fashion. They would heap reports and reams of data on me, Rumford said, and would escort me on field trips and fact-finding jaunts. They would answer all my questions, though not necessarily with the unvarnished truth.
Rumford had a sheet of banking vocabulary—“fiduciary,” “collateral,” “market making,” “debt-to-equity ratio,” “risk management,” “asset-backed securities,” “sovereign debt,” “rocket scientists” (financial, not NASA), “portfolio insurance,” “derivatives” and the like. We went over those, and by then it was lunchtime. He took me up to the executive dining room one floor below the penthouse, where we enjoyed a panoramic view of the New York metro area and ate sumptuously. Not a bad life those high-powered investment bankers led, if you didn’t mind spending 60 hours every week in an office, chained to a desk with your head full of figures represent
ing huge amounts of other people’s money. It’s probably even worse now, with 24/7 on-call through wireless gadgetry.
After lunch he gave me a pop quiz on vocabulary by way of review, added a few helpful hints on the etiquette of the world of high finance, gave me a list of bank names to drop, and bade me farewell and good luck. From movies like Wall Street many people have the impression that people like Rumford Rightway are voracious, unprincipled greed machines who, when they aren’t doing lines of coke and orgies with hookers, screw hapless old geezers out of their IRAs and rape the nest eggs of innocent widows and orphans. Maybe some traders are like that, maybe some bucket shop operators. From what I saw during my day at the bank, your typical investment banker was a competent, conscientious person with a good head for numbers, slaving away at a pressure-ridden job in a competitive field. Unimaginable amounts of money flow through their offices, which they never touch but only experience as many-digit, fleeting figures on a computer screen. They hope to do their jobs well enough that some of those flickering numbers will wend their way to their year-end bonuses, making what struck me as a dull and stressful life worthwhile for them.
On the plus side, nobody tries to kill them.
*
I bought suitable luggage, packed it with my new wardrobe, and was on my way back west five days after I arrived. My “bank” flew me out to L.A. in a private Gulfstream jet and limo’d me to the Bonaventure Hotel. I hadn’t set foot there since I was a bit player in an FBI surveillance tape of John DeLorean’s drug schemes. Nothing needed doing in Los Angeles proper, so after I got settled into my room I rented a BMW 535 to get over to Malibu and make preparations from my trip. I left my new duds in the room, figuring nobody would be tailing me, because at this point Jack Philco, New York investment banker, was not a person of interest. Any back-check would find what counted on paper—the flight plan, the hotel, the rental car. First order of business was to retrieve my Cherokee from LAX long term parking. My screen-writer neighbor was stuck on a script and thought driving down the coast with somebody in my line of work would be a good chance to sound out some ideas. I don’t know what he got out of our conversation, but a few scenes in Lethal Weapon did look familiar.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 26
