“When the Americans came to re-conquer the Philippines, a bombing raid scored a lucky hit on my protector’s headquarters building and killed him and all his aides. He’d given me gold trinkets and dropped hints about Yamashita’s gold, so upon his death I immediately scoured his files and belongings and found a map hidden away, which I am sure leads to the treasure. General Yamashita was captured by the Americans, tried for war crimes and executed, carrying his secret to the grave, if he ever even knew the location. My protector was a devious, greedy man, and he may have kept it to himself or misled Yamashita.
“But what was a used-up comfort woman to do with an important secret like that? A billion dollars of gold, and whom could I trust? So I carefully guarded that map for all these years, until Luz brought you here.”
“It’s an amazing story, all right,” I said. “A map is the only proof you have?”
“Luz, show him,” she said. Luz went to a sideboard, opened a drawer and drew something out. She came back and handed it to me, a small, very heavy golden Buddha statue. “There are others. I’ve given them to Luz. That is for you to keep. Now, here is the promise I ask of you. Collect that treasure. Keep half. Give the other half to Luz. That’s all. A simple thing.”
“Here’s what I’ll promise. I’ll call in a friend who specializes in salvaging treasures, and we’ll follow the directions on your map. If we find the gold, and if we can claim it, I will certainly give Luz half the proceeds of the operation.”
“Ha! Spoken like a banker,” Auntie said. “Done. Luz, get the map.” Luz pulled out a filing cabinet drawer, groped underneath it and came out with a plastic folder that had been taped to the underside. She brought it to me. I examined it through the plastic, a chart of islands, with coordinates given, and one of them indicated. It appeared to be in tangle of small islands on the Pacific side of the Bicol region in southeast Luzon. Some Japanese writing, with arrows, suggested directions.
“This will take a little time, Auntie,” I said.
“You have plenty of time. I don’t. I thank you, Mr. Philco. I trust you to keep your promise.”
“I will do my level best. God bless,” and I leaned down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. She smiled.
Luz took me to the door. “May I ask how you will proceed with this project?” she asked.
“It’s not as simple as Auntie said. I’ll have to contact my friend, and if he agrees, we’ll return to the Philippines, go to the islands on the map and see if the gold really is there. If we locate it, then we’ll have to consult with the authorities. If we get their permission, we’ll collect the gold and convert it to cash. And believe me, you’ll get your half, if there’s a half to get.”
“This will take time, then? How much time?”
“Several months, I estimate.”
“You will be returning to the States in the meantime?”
“Yes, in a day or two.”
“I don’t suppose you would take me with you?”
“No,” I said, and I explained why not as delicately and tenderly as I could.
*
So I arrived back at LAX a couple days later, with a billion or so potential dollars worth of map in my luggage. Next step was to contact old surfing buddy “Wild Blue Under” (a.k.a. Scott Brentfield), who’d made a career of salvaging sunken treasure. But more of that later.
Many threads of this yarn remain to be tied up.
Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos finally ended up in one of their several Hawaiian properties, a mansion on landscaped grounds in Honolulu. Financial post-mortems revealed the extent of the Marcos corruption. Or perhaps I should say “suggested it”, as the full scope may never be known. Someone in Manila calculated that from his government service between 1966 and 1986, Ferdinand Marcos earned a total of $372,000, an opulent living for the Philippines. Probably came with a pension, too. American politicians often retire richer than their career-long public servant salaries, but Lyndon Johnson and “Lady Bird’s radio stations” was peanuts compared to the Marcos boodle.
The daily take from Philippine businesses the Marcoses owned or controlled required a “money room” in Malacanang Palace where it was accumulated and distributed. In 1983 alone, $278,000,000 was moved out of the money room to foreign accounts. A World Bank Report stated that, between 1978 to 1982, $3.1 billion of foreign loans failed to reach their specified beneficiaries (and we were going to lend this guy money?). Following his departure, a Commission on Good Government formed to investigate his finances. The net value of Marcos real estate holdings uncovered in New York, California, Texas, London, Australia and Canada came to $622,389,000, and no doubt holdings at other locations remained unaccounted for. Three of Imelda’s personal bank accounts totaled to $37,900,000. Listed investments ran to $500,000,000, and gold bullion to $300,000,000. During the weeks running up to the 1986 election, Marcos transferred $100,000,000 from the Treasury to personal Swiss bank accounts while he bankrupted the country buying votes.
How did Ferdinand and Imelda do it? Through the connivance of corrupted cronies both in the Philippines and abroad, coupled with numbered bank accounts, shell companies, multi-tiered ownerships, kickbacks from foreign corporations and bald-faced theft. Estimates reached as high as $30 billion that the Marcoses cost the Philippines, of which they may have reserved $10 billion for themselves—at the 1985 value of the U.S. dollar—making him not only one of the richest men in the world, but in the running for Most Corrupt Politician of All Time. When all this was revealed, where did the American press focus its attention? On an aspect that readers of People Magazine could grasp: Imelda’s collection of 3,000 pairs of shoes. Of course, had the media been fully diligent, some prominent Americans might have suffered embarrassment from their relationships with the Marcoses. Beth Romulo pegged it right that journalism had declined since her day. Or maybe the same integrity continued on, but the style degenerated. It wasn’t, after all, the first time our press gave deep corruption a wink and a nod.
A variety of chronic diseases finally caught up with Ferdinand Marcos, who died three years later in Honolulu. Corazon Aquino allowed Imelda to return to the Philippines in 1991, and the day after she arrived the authorities arrested her for tax fraud and corruption. In 1993 she was found guilty and sentenced to prison, just one of 100 or so cases involving $350,000,000 allegedly held by the Marcos family in Swiss banks. She appealed and not only avoided prison but in 1995 won election as a congresswoman of Leyte, collecting twice the votes of her opponent. She stayed active in politics, as well as actively defending herself in court, well past the turn of the century, needless to say living quite comfortably.
That’s the Philippines for you. Or perhaps it’s the Way of the World.
Beth Day Romulo remained in the Philippines, a country she truly loved, and continued writing, eventually authoring 28 books, including Inside the Palace, which detailed the Marcos saga from Beth’s insider perspective.
P. J. O’Rourke returned to the Philippines one year later, assigned by Rolling Stone Magazine to write a piece on how Corazon Aquino had improved the Philippines and changed Philippine politics. His article, “The Post-Marcos Philippines—Life in the Archipelago After One Year of Justice, Democracy and Things Like That,” came to this conclusion: not a hell of a lot. He did find the nation’s Communists greatly miffed that they’d never been given any role in the government, despite their efforts on Cory’s behalf. The same thing happened to them in Iran when Khomeini took over. You’d think they’d learn.
Speaking of Communists, “Evgeny Grotelov” had already checked out of the Intercontinental Hotel by the time I called to say goodbye. I’d see Grotesqcu again the next time I went on an overseas assignment, no doubt.
Luz and I kept in touch pending my quest for Yamashita’s hoard. I’ll anticipate the finale of this tale by reporting that she landed her big spender, a high official in the Philippine government. Thanks to p
rior, er, contacts, with many of his colleagues, she enjoyed numerous fond friendships and reigned as the toast of Manila for a number of years. After which she lived, as far as I know, happily ever after.
Langley recalled Kevin Blank to base immediately after I mentioned my problem with him to Todd Sonarr. Several years later the police caught him burglarizing houses in the Langley vicinity during his CIA lunch hours. They found his Alexandria apartment full of stolen articles and trinkets, little of it especially valuable. Apparently he’d been doing B and E out of boredom. The CIA fired him, and I haven’t heard of him since. His tragedy, I think, lay in the failure of the CIA to utilize his true talents.
Todd Sonarr showed up at my Malibu door six weeks after I returned home. “Jake, my man,” he said brightly, in much better spirits than he’d shown the last time he dropped in. “I was passing through the area, thought I’d come by and see how you’re holding up.”
“Getting along okay,” I said. “None the worse for wear.”
“Quite a ride, the Philippines,” he said, as I led him into the living room. “Man, that carpet! Blows me away each time I see it.” I didn’t wait for him to ask, but went to the liquor shelf and pulled the scotch down.
I got a Dos Equis for myself and handed him his drink. He raised it and said, “Here’s to democracy and free elections!” And guffawed out loud. “Jake, I didn’t really just drop in, you know, casual-like. I owe you a debriefing on your Philippine mission, and I came out here to pay up.”
“Todd, I’d settle for just finding out what the mission was.”
“Well, yes, that’s part of what I wanted to discuss with you. You went rogue on me, I know that. What you didn’t know is, you were supposed to go rogue.”
“Huh?”
“Everybody in the U.S. Government, and I mean everybody, wanted Marcos out of there. So they came to us. Marcos had a habit of publicly blaming the CIA for everything that got fucked up in the Philippines, when the plain fact was that we never had much presence there. So how would it look if we sent someone in to help depose the president of an allied country who was a dedicated anti-Communist and one of our staunchest supporters—that is, except when he was stealing us blind? We couldn’t do that. Instead, I sent you in, ostensibly to help him, knowing that once you got a good look at that crook and his bitch of a wife you couldn’t in good conscience do it. Worked like a charm.”
“I was supposed to throw in with Corazon Aquino?”
“What any man of integrity and decent standards would do, but not everyone in our employ has the balls to do it. But here’s the thigh-slapper, the crowning irony of the caper. Our Senate denounced the election, and Cory Aquino was declared the winner, before all the votes came in from the other islands and were properly counted. The initial tally of the final collected ballots had Marcos winning by over a million votes. Then the National Assembly and NAMFREL went through them with a fine-toothed comb, discounting whatever fraud they could find. And Reagan didn’t misspeak; all concerned did their share of cheating. At the end of the day, Marcos still won by more than 700,000 votes. He bought those votes with the public’s money, of course, but it’s not like he was the first politician ever to stay in power that way. The Democrats did the same with their Great Society, though it’s going to take Americans a couple more decades to cotton on to the full tab for that.”
Then he broke out a wide, delighted grin. “Don’t you get it, Jake? You helped Corazon Aquino steal the election from Ferdinand Marcos—exactly what you were assigned to prevent. Ha ha, and they said it couldn’t be done!”
“That was okay?”
“Okay? Jake, it was a royal flush. It was a grand slam. Steele Bosserman and I couldn’t have planned it better. Another question. We were aware of a lot of Communist activity, especially after the vote. How about counter-espionage? Did you get any sense of KGB presence?”
Where did this come from? “Now that you mention it, there was a suspicious guy lurking around, more often than you’d expect from sheer coincidence. He reminded me of that schlub from the Polish Mission in Saigon, ‘Mickey Mouse,’ we code-named him. Plain-faced, stocky, with straw-colored hair—looked sort of like him, but I couldn’t be certain.”
“I was afraid of that. I don’t want to disturb you, but I think the Ruskies have you under surveillance, maybe have from way back when. There’s only one thing to do. I’ll assign a man to the case. Count on us, we’ve got your back.”
So I’m a one-man spook employment agency? Emil Grotesqcu expands his staff to thwart me. Todd Sonarr adds a guy to thwart Grotesqcu thwarting me? I’ll never walk alone. Todd was right about the irony. Rogue CIA and KGB covert operatives conspired to steal an election from Ferdinand Marcos (with an assist from the United States Senate)? You can’t make this stuff up. “Look, Todd,” I said, “there’s no need for that. I don’t work for the CIA, never did, never will. This was a one-off consulting gig.”
“Of course, of course. Don’t sweat it, we have your back anyhow.”
Whatever that was supposed to mean. But by the time he left I felt more congenial toward him than I’d expected.
A few days later my phone rang, and I picked it up to hear a voice familiar to millions of Americans. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Jake Fonko?”
“Speaking,” I replied.
“Mr. Fonko, this is President Reagan. I’m calling to congratulate you by telephone, because I can’t do it in public. I’m not supposed to know this, but I hear you received an award from our Central Intelligence Agency for outstanding clandestine service. I think they call them ‘jockstrap awards,’ because you can’t wear them where anyone can see them.”
“I am deeply honored by your call, Mr. President, but that was 10 years ago that I got that award. I haven’t done anything outstanding lately.”
“Modesty becomes a man, but the award I’m not supposed to know about was issued just yesterday, for your work in keeping the Philippine presidential election honest. Another thing I’m not supposed to know is that you’re one of the few ever to receive a second one.”
That threw me for a loop, because I hadn’t really done much, nor had Grotesqcu. We could claim credit for a few tweaks and nudges, but essentially it was a homegrown uprising, not even a genuine revolution, just a stolen election and a swap of people at the top of an established and pretty corrupt system. All I could figure is that Todd Sonarr coveted another gold star by his name and I was a sort of reverse-patsy, the opposite of a fall-guy. It was his operation, and it turned out as everyone wanted, quickly and cleanly, with no unpleasant after-taste. So he maxed out the kudos he could grab, including recommending me for a citation. Despite my wandering off the reservation I wound up accomplishing exactly the desired result with no collateral damage, without blowing my cover (Kevin did that). Compared to real heroes maybe I earned my pay but I sure didn’t do anything worth a commendation. Not that I’d turn it down. I knew exactly what my lawyer-stepfather Evanston would say when I told him: “That’s good, Jake. I advise you to raise your rates.”
The CIA held ceremonies for those awards, but Sonarr didn’t notify me. He hadn’t invited me to the ceremony for the first award either. Just as well. I’d enter the CIA’s Langley headquarters only at gunpoint.
*
Scott Brentfield, Dana Wehrli and I plowed toward our destiny through placid island waters off Luzon’s southeastern coast. We lucked out with the weather and were enjoying a bright and not oppressively humid day of late spring tropical bliss, mild breezes rippling cats’ paws across the sea’s blue surface. Our treasure hunt was on.
Wild Blue Under (Scott’s surf-gang handle) and I had put our heads together and scoped out the possibilities. He studied the most detailed charts he could find, compared them to Auntie’s map, and pinpointed our island. It lay in the vicinity of the waters where the “Tin Can Sailors” held off a superior Japanese fleet in one of history’s gre
at naval upsets. He checked with Philippine authorities on laws regarding salvaging treasure. Providing we met certain conditions, we’d keep a decent slice of what we found. He scrounged up what information he could on the Yamashita hoard, applied his 10 years’ experience in treasure salvage to the available intel and decided it was worth a little time and expense to take a look. I fronted the bread.
Dana had some vacation days coming and a light schedule just then, so she came along for the adventure. Bowled over by the little gold Buddha I gave her, she thought a treasure hunt story would make a great 20/20 segment. She brought along a mini-cam for some footage to take back to her studio. I looked forward to being a billionaire, or at least very, very rich, with my one-quarter share of the loot (Luz, Scott and me splitting the take). I was happy for Luz, too. If the need arose, I’d tell Dana more about our thus-far unidentified Filipino partner.
We hired a trawler out of a fishing port an easy day’s round trip from the island. The boat smelled like leftover shrimp, but what the heck? The skipper, a weathered Filipino of indeterminate age, came with the boat and handled it expertly. The plan was to land and scout the terrain following the directions we’d had translated from the original Japanese. If we found evidence of the gold, Dana would film enough to establish bona fides and we’d quietly return to Manila and set the salvage operation in motion. If this turned up a fool’s errand, Scott would put the trip to good use by checking into other sunken salvage possibilities around the islands, as the Spanish had lost a number of treasure ships in Philippine waters over the centuries. Dana and I would write it off as a nice tropical getaway.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 42
