I stayed in my beach pad a few days, setting it straight for an absence of four months—the estimate Todd Sonarr had given me. Dana was in town, so we made the most of that. I dropped in on Mom and Evanston in Pacific Palisades to say goodbye. Mom was as usual thrilled that I was going on some kind of secret mission, something to brag to her canasta buddies about. Evanston had some last minute thoughts to impart.
“I like your cover, Jake,” he said. “If you play your role right, nobody’s going to risk getting on the wrong side of a potential lender. The thing is, when you command that amount of money, there’s a lot at stake for the borrowers. Look out for every trick in the book to get the loans. They can’t strong-arm you, but bribes and blackmail can’t be counted out.”
“But I don’t have any money to loan them.”
“That’s the other thing. If they find that out before you complete your mission, whatever it is, you’ll be dead in the water … maybe even literally, depending on your mission. It has something to do with Marcos?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“It’s a safe guess—in the Philippines, everything has to do with Marcos.”
“He’s that far-reaching?”
“Marcos reaches into every corner of everything in the Philippines, and not only there. His wife, too. They have large property holdings in Hawaii, California, New York, and other places, I’m sure. I don’t think she’s the brains of the outfit, but watch your back around her. To say she can be a bitch on wheels is a gross understatement. Over the years clients doing business with that pair have come out either rich or bloodied. And not always sure why it went the one way or the other.”
Packing for the trip didn’t take long, just a suitcase-worth. The banker clothes I’d be officially wearing were at the Bonaventure, so from home I threw things that might otherwise come in handy into my Gucci satchel from Iran. A rough outdoor outfit. Night-black kit. Sturdy running shoes. Field gear. And my silencer-fitted SIG Sauer. Dana stayed over in Malibu my last night in town. It was too late in the year to sit out on the beach in the evening chill, so we doused the living room lights and gazed through the picture window at the breakers phosphorescing in the moonlight.
“Jake, be careful this time,” she said. “You had a close call in India. We’d just about given you up for lost.”
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “That was a cosmic sucker punch. I never had a hint all that grief was coming down, and I still haven’t figured it out. This time I’ve an idea what I’m getting into.”
“You once explained to me what kind of jobs you do, and I scolded you because I couldn’t get with the violence. I understand it better now. Whatever you have to do to stay safe, do it, do it, do it,” she murmured.
“I always do, Whirlybird.”
Breakers crashing into blue-white fire. Flutes of champagne. A gorgeous blonde in my arms. A soft king-size bed down the hall. The kind of send-off that makes a man sorry to leave.
But early the next morning I left for Manila anyhow.
First stop was the Bonaventure, to pick up my stuff and check out. I had some time to kill before my flight, so I dialed up Sarge Wallace, still stationed in South Korea. As wise in the ways of Asia as anyone I knew, I figured he might have some useful dope on the Philippines. Luck was with me, he was on base near the phone. “Jake, my main man!” he exclaimed when I identified myself. “It’s been too long. I heared some things about you from Henry, of course. He said you’d smoothed the way for that Grenada invasion.”
“No, not me. It was the Rangers all the way,” I replied.
“What? You ain’t callin’ Major Henry Wallace, my kid brother, a liar, is you? You be careful there; he’s the white sheep of the family.” This with his growling chuckle.
“I’m calling him a good friend and a top notch soldier. Man, it did my heart good to see those guys come in there, brought back fond memories. Figure me as an innocent bystander to the action and let it go at that. How’s life in South Korea?”
“You know how it is with a peacetime Army life, Jake. Training, upgrading, treading water. Can’t complain. Got some little businesses going to fill my off duty hours. Brought the family over. They’re counting the days back to stateside. Say, what are you up to these days, Jake?”
Sarge, as you may recall, was my mentor, guide and protector during that Saigon/Cambodia fiasco in 1975. He was the quintessential Master Sergeant, those guys who make the Army function, and therefore my go-to guy for any questions concerning the military. Sarge also ran side businesses from time to time, gold trading, tax assistance for the men, go-between where parties needed bringing together. Nothing illegal, nor even very shady, but that aspect made Sarge also my go-to guy for questions concerning the seamy side of life. And that was why I had him on the phone. “I was wondering what you could tell me about the Philippines,” I said.
“Never been stationed there, that’s mostly Navy and Air Force at them bases, but I’ve heard some things. Why are you askin’? Some job you’re takin’ on?”
“I’m heading over there on an assignment, yeah.”
“This ain’t for the CIA again, is it?”
“I can’t answer that question.”
“Okay, you answered it. Does that Todd Sonarr have anything to do with it?”
“Can’t answer that either.”
“Okay, I got the picture. What do you want to know?”
“General lay of the land, pitfalls to avoid, danger zones, intel not in the tourist guides.”
“Lemme ask you this: Which side are you on?”
“The current government, Marcos.”
“Okay. Marcos is a U. S. ally, but he’s also crooked as a hunchbacked sidewinder. And that wife of his, Imelda, is as mean as one. They be rakin’ in money with both hands, any way they can get it. He controls everything, and things happens to people that get in his way. Or her way. Jake, why you keep getting’ into these situations? That Shah in Iran, John DeLorean, that BCCI bank, now this. I ain’t sayin’ Marcos compares with the Khmer Rouge, but…“
“Bad news, he is?”
“Bad as they come. But being a U.S. ally, not much word of it gets out to the public. How much our government knows about it, I can’t say. Probably plenty, but they don’t want to badmouth a staunch ally, you know. Listen to me, Jake, you’re one of the best, you can handle yourself, but you just take care now. Keep both eyes open, and one of ‘em on your backtrail. And don’t forget that CIA in your backtrail.”
Sarge’s perennial advice, always apt, and I only wish I could always follow it. Okay, I’ve been warned by One Who Knows. Maybe I didn’t fully realize what I was getting into after all. But I still had the assignment. We chit-chatted a bit longer, and then I rang off. Time to drive to LAX for my flight to Manila.
*
My first surprise of the gig came when I arrived at the First Class counter for my United Airlines flight to Manila, to be told my reservation had been canceled. Before I could ramp up into high dudgeon a slightly built man in a dark business suit appeared beside me. He was Asian, with a roundish face. “I hope you will not mind, Mr. Philco,” he said softly. “My name is Dominguez. My government dispatched me to welcome and assist you. President Marcos took the liberty of extending his hospitality by bringing you to our lovely country via our flagship carrier, Philippine Airlines.”
Now what? “I suppose one way’s as good as the other, Mr. Dominguez,” I said. Generally true among foreign flagship carriers in those days, but this was a little creepy. “I appreciate your president’s concern and generosity.”
“Oh, you’ll be pleased by PAL, I assure you,” he said. “If you will come with me. My aides will see to your luggage.” Two somewhat larger, business-suited men stepped over and put my bags on a cart. Mr. Dominguez guided me back out through the lobby doors to a waiting limousine, which ferried me around the LAX perimete
r road to the International Terminal. He led me past a lineup of exotically-named airlines to the PAL counter, where a petite Asian clerk in a crisp uniform checked me in and sent my bags down the belt. I had misgivings about what a luggage search would come up with, but it was out of my hands now. Mr. Dominguez and his helpers shepherded me through security and exit procedures, waited with me for the boarding call, then bade me a pleasant journey as I entered the tunnel. No need to go into details of the flight, which spanned the Pacific Ocean over a period of too many hours. Suffice to say that they’d put me in the best cabin a 747 offered, and the comely flight attendants showered every possible attention short of mile-high club on me. I’d never flown so luxuriously before. Creepy aspects aside, I can’t say I minded the airline swap at all.
My seat was sufficiently large, comfortable and private that I caught decent sleep en route. We arrived in Manila after dark, so I couldn’t get much of a look at the place as we came in—blackness fronting a clutch of bright lights, a dimmer surround stretching quite a distance, and beyond that more blackness. My seating qualified me to be an early de-planer. A squad of several slight and several husky, business-suited Filipinos awaited me as I emerged into a modern, gleaming concourse. They greeted me with gracious enthusiasm, collected my passport and customs forms, then led me straight to an equally well-appointed lobby, and from there to a Mercedes sedan sitting at the curb. No passport lines for visiting investment bankers? I’d been looking forward to getting my freshly forged but expertly weathered “Jack Philco” passport stamped for the Philippines, adding to the numerous stamps for Switzerland, Belgium, the United Kingdom and other countries where I’d traveled for banking business.
They led me through the glass doors, and I got my first taste of Manila as heavy, steamy air enveloped me, pretty much the same as in Nam and Thailand, and this in the dry season. My tropical weight suit wasn’t nearly tropical-weight enough. My banker’s wardrobe included short-sleeved shirts, which I’d be make sure to put on whenever I couldn’t take refuge in air-conditioning. Which, to my relief, the limo had. Porters brought my bags out and loaded them in the trunk, and the driver whisked us over broad boulevards through light, late-night traffic to my next surprise. “I’m booked at the Intercontinental Hotel,” I protested, as the limo pulled up at the portal of the Manila Hotel.
“President Marcos thought you would be better accommodated here,” my greeter said, “so we took the liberty…” You can’t tell much at first glance by night, but the floodlit façade of the building looked austere and faded. The uniformed doorman ushered me out of the car and through a revolving door, and it was like cutting open a kiwi fruit. That grey exterior contained a sprawling, elegant lobby of arcades, plush armchairs and glittering chandeliers. My greeter returned my documents, said a few words to the desk clerk, and before I knew it a bellman had conveyed me into a very fine suite of rooms that didn’t reach Plaza-level luxury but came close enough. The bellman stowed my bags and refused my tip. I checked my luggage. It showed no signs of having been tampered with. Was I being paranoid? Why would they surveil an incoming investment banker? I undressed, showered, tossed aside the throw-pillows and hit the rack.
Killing me with kindness? No, Manila had other methods, should the need arise.
*
Deep sleep carried me through the night to mid-morning, when bright sunlight intruding around the drapes finally roused me. I made a cup of coffee from the set-up on the sideboard, munched a starfruit from the welcome basket, cleaned up and went down for an early lunch. Sleep schedule was one adjustment to jet-lag, and meal schedule was another. The mental haziness inflicted by eight time zones of jet-lag takes a while to shake. You need to stay awake through the first day no matter what and go to bed at a normal hour. Todd Sonarr had given me a list of people to contact, and he told me I should touch base with the economic counselor at the U.S. Embassy. Plus there were several messages from Philippine government functionaries waiting for me when I got to the lobby. But it wouldn’t do me any good to meet with people my first day in town while still befogged from a trans-Pacific flight.
After lunch I took a cab over to the Bank of America to get finances squared away. Sonarr had sent me off with a wad of cash and a thick envelope of travelers cheques. I verified that my account there was in good order and changed half the cash into Philippine pisos, leaving me with an even heavier wad of bills than I came in with. Nothing else needed immediate attention, so I went back to the Manila Hotel, stashed my dollars and t-cheques in the hotel safe, and set about reconning my new base of operations. By light of day it had plenty of charm. My room overlooked Manila Bay, a view that framed memorably colorful sunsets. The lobby sported shops as chic as any, anywhere. Sleek restaurants offered a variety of cuisines. The fitness center was well-equipped, and out back I found an inviting pool with a canopied bar, nestled among palms. I returned to the suite and made a surreptitious scan to locate cameras and bugs I suspected were there. Then I sat down at the desk in my suite to straighten out my paperwork. They’d got my passport stamped somewhere along the line and dealt with the rest of entry documentation as well. I sorted my messages, pulled out Sonarr’s list and started on drafting a plan of attack to support my cover as a big-bucks loan syndicator. As my first step, I called the Embassy and made an appointment to see the economic counselor, I’ll call him “Taunton Trustworth,” the day after next—which actually was the day after that, as I’d flown over the International Dateline into tomorrow. Sound confusing? Blame it on jet-lag.
Then I assessed my list of various government figures I should talk to, also newspaper publishers and editors, college professors, bankers and businessmen. The pretext for the interviews was to sound out the economic climate in consideration of making loans, but what I’d really be doing was getting a handle on the election Sonarr assured me was imminent. I drafted a tentative plan, figuring maybe one meeting per day, no more than two, starting with key people and seeing where things snowballed from there. It was the tail end of October, giving me plenty of time before an election took place. What I could do to thwart the Communists remained to be seen. I assumed that after I reported to Sonarr and he disclosed my role to the government, I’d coordinate with the Filipino Army and the local police. And then I’d serve in an advisory capacity? What could I learn from interviewing people here, that the Filipino government didn’t know already, I wondered?
I worked over my lists, then went down and got a tourist guide book and some brochures in the lobby. I took my reading out by the pool, found a seat at a little table in the shade and ordered a San Miguel, the local beer of note. Presently the clock said dinnertime, though my stomach was primed for breakfast. You can’t let your stomach boss you around and hope to beat jet-lag, so I took a light dinner in the Chinese restaurant. Afterwards I returned to my room, extracted a little bottle of scotch from the minibar and forced myself to stay awake to 11 p.m. by exploring what Filipino television had to offer. News broadcasts. Chop-socky movies. Sports they don’t play in America. Game shows even sillier than ours. And finally, mercifully, zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
I rose late the next morning still feeling behind the curve. Rather than undertake serious work I opted for a day-long tour of Corregidor, that famous World War Two bastion. The boat ride across Manila Bay provided a refreshing breeze, and I’ve always liked being out on the water. My prior images of this setting came from a movie about PT Boats in the Philippines, They Were Expendable, which I later learned was filmed in Florida; but the look was close enough. The Rock, fortified and honeycombed with man-made tunnels and caverns, is impressive. The stats on the American defeat in 1942 shocked my post-Nam sensibilities—more than 20,000 American personnel were left behind to be captured by the Japanese and death-marched to murderous POW camps. What kind of outrage would the New York Times headline writers make of that in the present day?
My third morning in Manila I had the desk awaken me at a normal hour, and after breakf
ast I readied myself to see Taunton Trustworth. The American Embassy sat on the other side of Rizal Park, about a half mile away. On my own, in suitable clothes, I’d have walked it for the exercise, but an investment banker in suit and tie facing that muggy heat would naturally be driven. Wouldn’t do to arrive sweaty! The doorman put me in a cab, and he, too, refused a tip, saying, “It has been seen to, Mr. Philco.”
The U. S. Embassy commanded as fine a view of the Bay as the Manila Hotel’s. It was a building in Federal style dating back to pre-World War Two, three solid, tree-shaded stories announced by a large, bronze placard by the gate. The driver dropped me off at the entrance. I presented myself to the receptionist, and after a short wait a clerk led me to the office of the economic counselor. Taunton Trustworth was standard issue foreign service, which is to say competent and seasoned by a series of shifting overseas assignments. He rose to welcome me, and then I took a seat opposite him at his desk. He perused my card and said, “I’m not familiar with Thermite Holdings, Mr. Philco.”
“It’s a closely-held, private concern based in New York,” I said. “We don’t command large assets ourselves or work much in the public eye, but rather serve as advisors and facilitators.”
“And what is your interest in the Philippines?”
“Loan syndication. We are investigating the possibilities for assembling a consortium to float a loan to the Philippine government. My role is advance scout, to assess the situation.”
Trustworth looked thoughtful as he weighed his next words. “We are not authorized to make invidious public statements concerning our host countries, Mr. Philco, but I would strongly advise you to exercise due diligence, extremely due diligence, before conducting business with the Marcos government. Do not be misled by the red carpet treatment. They do that for everyone whom they think might bring money their way.”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 27
