“Our principals are risk-averse, let me assure you, and any loans would be structured according to that constraint. You’re suggesting there might be problems?”
“Just a couple weeks ago President Reagan dispatched Senator Philip Laxalt of Nevada as a special envoy to look into unrest here. It seems opposition to the Marcos regime has been building ever since the assassination of Benigno Aquino and in the past months has reached troubling levels. Senator Laxalt was not pleased by what he observed, and apparently Marcos reciprocated that sentiment. After he left one of the Marcos newspapers was headlined, ‘Good Riddance.’ So yes, there might be problems.”
“I’ve heard an election might take place soon.”
“There are rumblings about that circulating, yes.”
“Could Marcos be deposed? That would certainly raise cautions regarding a loan.”
“No chance of an election resulting in that. No matter how the people vote, Marcos won’t lose the election.”
“Couldn’t the opposition steal it?”
“Steal an election from Ferdinand Marcos? What a joke. Stalin famously observed that it’s not the people who vote that count, it’s the people who count the votes, and in Philippine elections, Marcos’s gang collects the vote, counts it and reports it. An election would be just for show. No one of stature will run against him, and even if someone somehow got more votes on Election Day, Marcos would prevail in the end. His term runs until 1987, but with the current turmoil he might feel a need to demonstrate his support. He’s under a lot of pressure right now.”
“Very interesting and informative,” I remarked. “We hadn’t heard. It’s a good thing I came to see for myself. “
“That’s always wise, dealing with these, um, developing nations. Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Philco?”
“What about the New People’s Army? I’ve heard that name mentioned. Are they a threat to Marcos?”
“A ragtag, disorganized bunch. They might raise a ruckus here and then, protests, demonstrations, maybe some guerilla skirmishes and ambushes out in the rural districts and so forth, but no, no serious threat. Anything else?”
“Not right now. You’ve been very helpful already, Mr. Trustworth. I thank you.”
“Don’t hesitate to call if I can be of further assistance. A pleasure meeting you. Good luck with your investigations. And be careful. An unwary visitor here can find himself in trouble.”
I took a cab back to my hotel. Three days in town and already I gathered valuable intel. Like, who had Steele Bosserman been talking to? Taunton Trustworth saw no danger of the opposition winning an election from Marcos, nor saw the National People’s Army any kind of serious threat. It was a clear-cut proposition: either the U. S. State Department had their heads up their butts, or the CIA did.
*
After lunch I hit the exercise room hard, thinking that some physical fatigue would push me closer to jet-lag adjust. Afterwards I went out to the pool. It was empty enough for strenuous laps to the point of muscle-tax. I’d have no trouble getting to sleep that night. I found a table in the shade and sipped a couple San Miguels while I took stock of the beauties decorating the pool. Filipina women tend to be small, trim and of a soft beauty. Don’t take my word for it. The Philippines have produced more Miss Universe finalists than most other countries.
Having accomplished what I’d set out to do, I drifted through the rest of the day, ate a full dinner and settled in my suite for the evening. I’d planned out the next day and had tuned the TV to a sepak takraw match, an amazing Southeast Asian sport, essentially teams playing volleyball with their feet. Around 9 o’clock, someone rapped gently on my door. I opened it to find one of those Filipina beauties gazing up at me. Well, not exactly Filipina—her softly filled-out face had western features, especially those striking ice-blue eyes. Her mane of loosely waved, brown-black hair definitely was indigenous, ditto her petite body, closely sheathed in lustrous tangerine silk. “Yes?” I inquired.
“Good evening, Mr. Philco, I am Luz,” she said. “A friend sent me to pay you a visit. Men get lonely far from home. Welcome to Manila.”
More government hospitality, “taking the liberty to”? Or a honey trap? I may be over-suspicious, but I thought I’d spotted a camera in the bedroom, and it takes an expert to locate all the bugs. “One moment,” I said. I closed the door softly, slipped into my loafers, tossed my linen blazer on over my polo shirt and grabbed my room key. Rejoining Luz in the hallway, I said, “I’m happy you came. I was just getting ready to go downstairs for a drink. Would you like to join me?”
“Yes, I would enjoy that,” she said. I guided her to the elevator. “How do you like Manila?” she asked by way of conversation.
“Very nice so far, but I’ve only been here three days.”
“Yes, your friend said you had just arrived. You haven’t seen much of the city then. Not all of it is nice, but you are in the best hotel.”
We sat down at a remote table in the bar. She said a Coke would be fine (not a bar girl, or she would have ordered a champagne cocktail), and I ordered a gin and tonic. “Luz,” I said. “Beautiful ladies don’t usually come to my hotel rooms in strange cities my third night in town. You say a friend of mine sent you? What is my friend’s name?”
“I was instructed not to tell you, it was to be an anonymous gift.”
“I don’t mean to insult you, but I imagine there must be some matter of money here?”
“Yes, it is a professional arrangement. I have already been paid. For you it is on the house, as they say.”
“That was very thoughtful of my friend, but I don’t think tonight is going to work out well for what he had in mind. You seem like a nice girl. Is this what you do for a living?”
“It is not quite what you think. I am an escort, not a street whore. Oh, I know I sometimes do what they do, but it’s different.”
It’s always different, I thought. “You are very well spoken. You are a very striking woman. Tell me a little about yourself.”
LUZ’S STORY
“I never intended to become an escort; I suppose few girls do, even here in the Philippines, but that is the way things have worked out. You see, I am of mixed race—American and Filipino. There are many thousands of us here, from the men at the military bases getting it on with the local ladies. I never knew my father. Filipinos are tolerant of racial mixes, for we have always had many races—native, Chinese, Spanish, American—but not to know your father is disgraceful. My mother tells me he was an American Marine, stationed at Subic Bay. His name was ‘Lance’ something…”
“Corporal?” I suggested.
“Yes, something like that, I think. Mum was very much in love with him, but then he was sent to another posting, and soon after that Mum discovered I was on the way. She never heard from him after that and told me that he had been killed in action. Her family took her back in, and the whole family raised me. Though we were poor, I enjoyed a happy childhood. I had no advantages, but I did well in the Catholic school and received scholarships, and in due time I earned a teaching credential. My grades were top notch, but considering my background, I could not hope for a plum assignment, of course. In fact I was fortunate: many girls with credentials cannot find teaching jobs at all. I took an assignment on a remote island teaching in a poor tribal school. It was hell. I could barely understand the local language, and the children were wild animals with no interest in learning anything. I was cut off from the city life I preferred, the pay was a pittance and the village men wouldn’t leave me alone. Before my first year was out I broke my contract and returned to Manila. Because I broke my contract I had no prospects of another teaching job.
“Many Filipino girls with credentials who can’t find work here hire out as maids in wealthier countries. A placement agency arranged for me to work as a maid for a Chinese family in Singapore. At first it seemed like a good situ
ation, and it could have been far worse, for some agencies are nothing but fronts for sex trafficking. Singapore is a wealthy and pretty place: there are no slums at all. But the lady of the house treated me like a slave, ordering me to do petty and useless things even when I had already done all my duties—she wanted to get her money’s worth, I suppose. The children were nice enough, but the husband soon had eyes for me. Not that he could come after me, because the wife wouldn’t let me out of her sight. She would never leave me alone in the house for fear that I might steal something or make telephone calls to back home, so they dragged me along everywhere they went.
“Two years was enough of that kind of life. At the end of my contract I bought gold with my saved wages and returned to Manila, though I had no plans for making a living. My mother’s aunt saw me soon after I arrived, and she exclaimed over my beauty. She operates a network of cultured, beautiful young girls whom she supplies as escorts. Yes, bedtime could be part of the service, but the main thing was that they are publicly presentable and companionable, as they are often hired as arm-candy, as they say. It took some getting used to, as I had to overcome my shyness, but now I enjoy my work. Generally the clientele are decent men—government officials, businessmen, wealthy foreigners. I am paid well for my time, and I inhabit a much better world than most teachers and maids do. I think I have several years before my beauty will begin to fade, and in that time, who knows, I may meet a big spender who takes a fancy to me. It happens. One can hope. Look at Evita Peron.”
“A big spender?”
“Like in the Shirley MacLaine movie about the dancehall girls. Such a sad movie. But where they work, what can they expect? They will never meet big spenders there, renting themselves out for a dollar a dance, and not much more after hours. I think my situation is more favorable. Auntie assigns me only to big spenders, so it is just a matter of meeting the right one.”
“I’m glad you came to see me, Luz,” I said. “Tonight is not convenient, but perhaps we could get together again in a few days. I would very much like a tour of Manila, and I think you would be the perfect guide.”
“I know the many sides of Manila very intimately, and I would be most happy to show them to you, Mr. Philco,” she said. “It must be arranged through Auntie, of course.” She pulled a little wallet from her purse and fished out a business card, which she handed me. “This is the number for you to call. Yes, I would like to guide you around Manila. And, by the way,” she added with a coy smile, “I still owe you some services not yet rendered.”
I rose and gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ll leave you here. I’ll be calling your aunt soon.”
“Please do, I’d like that,” she said with a smile.
The old Fonko charm? No, the poor deluded thing thought I was a big spender. Never a dull moment in the exciting world of investment banking.
*
Stokes Gladstone, a.k.a. Todd Sonarr, had sent letters of introduction to contacts he thought would be worth talking to, so I had no trouble setting up appointments. The next morning I spent an hour with a couple of executives at the Philippine National Bank. They showed me charts, quoted me figures and loaded me with reports, all to the effect that a loan to the Philippine government would be as safe as houses, as secure as a mother’s arms. After lunch I met with a member of the Monetary Board, the primary economic policy-making body in the Philippines. He extolled the country’s bright prospects for the future, its financial stability and the unparalleled integrity of the government. In neither meeting did I get any hint of threat to the Marcos regime.
The day’s meetings were upbeat and enthusiastic. At both meetings I heard great things the government would do with the loan to benefit the Filipino people. Probes I ventured about threats from opposition were brushed off like doughnut crumbs from a beat cop’s shirt front. The glorious future of the Philippine nation, all my interviewees implied, sat right there in my checkbook, within easy reach of my Mont Blanc pen. The problem was, everybody seemed to be reciting lines from the same script.
The desk clerk gave me a message when I returned to the hotel. “Beth Romulo” had called, left a number and said it was urgent that I return the call. What kind of “urgent?” I wondered. I dialed her from the phone in my room. A woman with a local accent answered the phone. “Beth Romulo?” I asked.
“Un momento.” And in just a moment, another woman picked up. “Hello, this is Beth Romulo.” This one had a definitely American tone.
“This is Jack Philco. You left a message for me this afternoon.”
“Yes, I did. Welcome to Manila, Mr. Philco. Imelda wanted me to call you. Seeing as how I’m a fellow American, she thought it would be better if I broke the ice. How are you finding our fair city?”
“I’ve been here only four days, but so far, so good. The people I’ve met have been very hospitable.”
“That’s the Filipino way, very welcoming, friendly people. That’s why I’m calling. The Marcoses are most anxious to meet you. They’re planning a little soiree for Saturday night, and Imelda is hoping you’re free.”
“I’m free and clear. That’s great. I’d been wondering how to go about setting up a meeting. This will be a pleasure.”
“As I understand the nature of your business here, the pleasure will be all theirs. It’ll be for drinks and dinner, business attire, not formal. It would be best if I pick you up and fill you in on the way over.”
“Fine. Why don’t we have a drink here at the hotel first and get acquainted. What time will they be expecting me?”
“Ummm—they’re on Filipino time.”
“Which means…?”
“Any time you show up. But I think 7:30 would be right.”
“So perhaps we could meet in the Manila Hotel lobby around 6:30 … American time?”
“I’ll be there. Looking forward to it. Until then.”
“Yes, thank you. See you Saturday.”
The name “Romulo” rang familiar. I sorted though some materials I’d picked up at the Embassy and located a Romulo, a very high ranking general in the Philippine Army. Also a very old one. The woman on the phone sounded young and American. But there must be a connection—she invited me to meet the Marcoses. How many Romulos at that level of society could there be? Todd Sonarr hadn’t sent a letter directly to President Marcos, but any of several government officials who’d received them would have hastened to forward the excellent news of an American banker coming to loan them money. I’d have to bone up on my investment banking by Friday and be primed for more than just casual chit chat. The Marcoses would be taking me very seriously.
The evening was young, and I’d had enough of languishing around the hotel. Manila’s bright lights, the Ermita tourist district, lay on the other side of Rizal Park beyond the U. S. Embassy, only a klick away, a 15-minute walk. A sea breeze wafted in from the Bay, making the evening air lush rather than oppressively muggy, and I was back up to full energy. I stepped out through the portal and the doorman moved to wave a taxi over. “No cab, I’m just going over to check out the action down Roxas Boulevard. It’s a nice night for a walk.”
“I would strongly advise a cab, Mr. Philco,” he said.
‘“No problem, it isn’t far, and I need to stretch my legs.”
“Suit yourself, sir, but be careful.”
I cut across lower Rizal Park, a broad, monument-festooned expanse lively with couples promenading along the walkways, children cavorting on the grass, and clusters of youths hanging out around obnoxiously loud boom-boxes. Further into the plaza to my left some kind of rally was in progress. I walked past the Embassy and turned up a side street to get to the nightlife on Pilar Street, which ran parallel to Roxas Boulevard, three blocks over. The street bordered a little park. At a point well-shielded from streetlights a pair of young men emerged from the shadows in the park and fell in behind me.
From behind a tree another young man st
epped out in front of me, a revolver in his hand. “Your money and your watch, and we won’t hurt you.” His accomplices closed up quickly, flanking my back. Probably had knives. The few people who’d been on the street had drifted away from our developing tableau, leaving the four of us to sort it out on our own.
“You mean to rob me?” I asked, my hands up level with my face. The pistol looked like a .22, hardly heavy artillery. His buddies hadn’t immobilized me. Amateurs.
“Shut up and hand it over,” he snarled as best he could with a high-pitched juvenile voice.
“Okay, okay, okay,” I said. “No problemo, my friend, right away, no problemo.” I fumbled and fussed getting my wallet out, shuffling a little closer to him as I worked at it. I finally produced it and extended it part way in my hand. I stepped closer to pass it to him, and as he reached for it I dropped it on his right foot.
“Sorry,” I said, and made a move to bend down for it, then quickly grabbed the wrist of his gun hand, stretching the arm out straight and giving it a hard whack from underneath with my other forearm, dislocating his elbow. The pistol fired as I ducked beneath his gun arm and backed into him, throwing him off balance. I flipped him forward over my back, slamming him hard onto the pavement in front of me, and fell on him with a knee into his stomach. I pinned his useless arm to the ground and ripped the gun from his hand. His reflexive gunshot had hit one of his buddies in the groin, who now stood there looking puzzled. The third guy glanced nervously from the one writhing on the ground, to the one with the bullet hole in him, to me now holding the pistol, then turned and took off, ducking into the nearest bushes. The final score: Fonko 3, punks 0.
Well, that put a damper on my festive mood. I pocketed the gun and called it a night. Had I worn cheaper clothes they’d probably not have bothered me, but my silk polo shirt, tailored trousers and Patek Philippe wristwatch advertised easy pickings. Too bad for the next guy they mug—if they persist in street crime, they’ll be tougher customers in the future … until they meet somebody even tougher. I walked back along Roxas Boulevard, well-lit with heavy traffic. As I passed through Rizal Park I slipped the revolver into an over-flowing trashcan. At the hotel entrance the doorman said, “Back so soon, Mr. Philco?”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 28
