by P Gaseaux
Chapter Sixteen
Tanaka needed to locate Jackson, however since the confrontation in the ground-floor lobby the Manila man had gone to ground. The only trace was an unclassified email notifying HQ that he would be out of town pursuing enquiries relating to local issues, no further details provided. This was an annoyance to state the obvious as cracks were appearing in Jackson’s running of the case: firstly there was the mishandling of the air freight business but now there was the more serious allegation as stated by the land unit that he could be complicit in extorting nightclub owners. The first could be dismissed by any self-serving bureaucrat as an oversight but the second was simply inexcusable.
Tanaka had taken the step of collecting the broken cell phone -- the one Jackson had hurled onto the floor -- and whatever was on there could possibly be retrieved by experts if called for. He wanted to at least give Jackson the opportunity to explain and if this was not possible there was only one other recourse: escalate a report and hope the sharks would go easy on him. Silence on PK Tanaka’s behalf could be complicity in this day and age.
He needed to find Jackson; get his side of the story.
Tanaka checked on the old guy who was curled up on a sofa in a room on the ground floor at the rear of the embassy grounds, one of many within the compound maintained for short term accommodation be it for suspects for extradition, visitors or asylum seekers. Hatfield was in obvious discomfort.
“Where’s you pal from the bureau -- the one who’s meant to be looking after this?” he moaned.
“Not sure, Mister Hatfield. I need to have a word with him myself.”
The old guy struggled to pull himself up and sat. He rummaged around and gulped down some tablets from a container. Looked bad, better to stay indoors.
“Can I get you anything?”
Hatfield held up a plastic bottle of mineral water and shook his head. “Leave me be,” he said glumly.
Tanaka backed out and eased the door closed. He returned upstairs to his makeshift office and sent an urgent email marked: ‘In Confidence’ to Jackson before dialing his cell and leaving a recorded message. He needed a shower and change, and as he passed by some offices and found DEA Special Agent Cortez who was working late.
Tanaka knocked. “Wassup, Cortez…seen Mike Jackson?”
Chuck Cortez motioned him inside. “Close it,” he said. “Gotta be discrete, that’s all.” Put his finger up to his lips like a concerned mother-duck. “How’s it winding up -- any problems with the repatriation?”
“Okay,’ replied Tanaka. “Any idea where Jackson’s at?”
Cortez gave P K Tanaka one of those Mexican smiles through his ‘stache, could’ve meant anything. He just made the ‘hush’ gesture again. “Heard about the blow-up in reception,” he said. “You were there, so I’ll leave it there. Love to know what’s going on; this thing’s getting crazier by the minute.”
“Yeah, you said it. We’re all confined to base. Pity we can’t go out-”
“Forgeddabowdditt,” snapped Cortez in true wise-guy style, spent a lot of his life playing the part. “Next time I make it over, we outta go hit the town. Since we’re both bachelor-boys now.”
“Yeah,” said Tanaka. “Look forward; maybe see you in the morning. Gotta go check the repatriation for the ‘vic’.”
No sooner Tanaka stepped out his cell rang -- he was hoping it was Jackson but not to be. It was his boss, calling from DC. He checked what time, it was late here.
Must’ve been pretty early over there.
Just like the little Irishman said so, he was being pulled out. Along with Hatfield, they were heading home. Just like that.
Makati City was a modern development situated five miles to the southeast of the old capital. It resembled any modern city; the streets were wide and clean. The skyscrapers were no different to any back home. It was the financial centre and its dwellers worked late, often spilling onto the streets for a drink or feed later than nine and sometimes to patronize one of the many bars and nightclubs. In contrast to others in the country these were high rolling establishments with matching cover charges.
On an avenue that stretched downhill was a row of such bars, all with blacked-out windows and cover-girl receptionists at the doors with armed guards and hired muscle behind in case the wealthy patrons caused problems. In the middle of the line of neon lights and flashy posters was a glittering illuminated bar lit in red.
A black Vios reversed in several feet down a side entrance and cut the ignition, nose facing out. A tall, clean cut foreigner stepped onto the pavement. Looked like a missionary, and they had Mormons canvassing the city but this one sure wasn’t…it was Jackson, and he was on the warpath. He nodded to the doormen who threw the curtain back and opened the door leading into a well-known establishment managed by a Chinese-Filipino named Terence Chiu. Chiu was descended from Hokkein traders; a mid-range player in the Makati club scene who had Jackson on his payroll.
Mike Jackson nodded at the barmen; normally he would have accepted a beer and whatever else was on offer but not this evening. “Terry here?”
The barman smiled back and motioned for a hostess with a blue gown with a split up the side. Dressed in true Hong Kong-style but a Filipina; one of the Sarong-Party girls. Jackson held up his hand.
Shame, maybe another time, he thought. “I’ll find my own way,” he said.
It was still early and the place was relatively empty. He stopped by the gents’ restroom, discretely donning some latex examination gloves before continuing up the stairs. At the top of the carpeted staircase he knocked at an office door, waited a moment and let himself inside, something he had done many times in this place.
“Mikey!” The gruff whisky and smoke laced voice boomed. Chiu had a thin moustache and dressed like an actor from a spaghetti-western. He’d been an extra once, years ago. “Great to see you, the main man.”
Jackson sat before him, his hands in his pockets. “Was in the area, just thought I’d mosey on by. How’s things?”
“Fine; fine, my friend.” The Filipino hoodlum oozed phony charm. “How about yourself? Enjoy last week?”
Jackson chuckled, averting his eyes. “That’s kinda what I was here for.” His look hardened at Chiu’s expression. “That lady Marina; Matilda…whatever…if memory serves me.”
“Ahh…Tilly Superstar, the performer extraordinaire. She was a fashion model once-”
“That’s the one. She on tonight?”
Chiu looked unsure. “Good question. Problem?”
Jackson reached into his tropical jacket and removed a shiny little Air Weight revolver. The Filipino stiffened up in his chair, even less comfortable, and then he spotted the latex gloves. Jackson took a suppressor from his trouser pocket and fixed it to the end with a clockwise turn and soft click, straight over the foresight. Chiu shat himself.
“Guess you could say she took away some memories we had together.” Jackson leaned forward. “Don’t dick me around, Terry…where is she?”
The Filipino was perspiring now and worried. “Mikey, I’d tell you if I knew but she absconded. Nobody’s seen her since the party last week-”
The gunmetal on his flesh muted him.
“Where did she come from then? I’ll find her myself. Talk, dammit!”
Chiu was stuttering by now, petrified. “She…she’s Cebuana, from down south. Honestly Mikey, I haven’t seen her. Please believe me…”
“Where was she working before this place?”
He sputtered and coughed again, shaking his head urgently. “She had returned from overseas. Said she was a travel agent-”
“Where!!” shouted Jackson.
Chiu was sweating like a racehorse and shaking. “I’m not sure Mikey. Matilda did mention to the cashier she’d been in a resort on the Red Sea.” He turned to Jackson, pleading. “Look, if she has taken money from you just say the word, I can give you anything-”
Enough! Without saying a thing Jackson flexed his hand and fired the revolver into Chiu’s right temple once, dodging the squirt of blood from the temporal artery. Made a ‘clack’ like a tablespoon being struck on a large metal can; just one shot with a soft-nose pill. The nightclub owner swung forward then back before lurching to the side. Same as an epileptic seizure, only a lot more of the red stuff; it gushed as the hood croaked.
Jackson waited till he was most likely dead or out of blood for that matter, then he gently placed the gun into Chiu’s right hand, enclosing it before prying it loose and dumping it on the floor. He did remove the suppressor and pocket that, however…they were a difficult item to find, even in a crazy town like Manila.
All done, he removed the recording disk from the CCTV and bundled the unit under his arm, then tiptoed out closing the door behind him. He walked calmly along a hallway to a secured metal door at the rear and after shorting the magnetic trips he slipped the deadbolt with the aid of a lock-bump. Out the back, down an iron ladder and followed some lane out to the street where the stolen Toyota was, where he left it.
He drove north through Quezon toward Angeles City. Dealing with the man from DC was off the table but he turned his attention to the woman Anna, or whatever her name was, who’d showed up at the mortuary. Now she was gone, abducted by a group who had vanished along with her. He’d never met her before, only Will Hatfield and he decided the best place to start looking was in Angeles; there may be people who knew where she was. Jackson’s priority was to cover his tracks; the whole thing was getting more complicated by the day.
Had to cut the scene now, Chiu had contacts…a lot of contacts.
How did that guy get the footage of him and the woman Tilly?
Jackson had to get his priorities right: get to Angeles City and work his way back from there. Once upon a time he’d blown his load all over ‘Tilly Superstar’; looked like she’d disappeared and was dead set on returning the favor. A hundred times over.
Thirty five years old, Jackson could retire now. He had a collection of foreign exchange accounts in Singapore, Macau and even Liechtenstein and he had a folio of backups in the form of dual and false nationalities. His very own subscriber’s pay website filled with pure, unadulterated filth. He could sense his career with the Feds was drawing to a close, better to walk away than be made to run -- that was his philosophy. Put the Phillies behind him and start a new life…Panama, Rio, Castro’s Cuba maybe. Anywhere but here in Asia or back in the States. What he didn’t want was anybody playing catch-up down the way.
Everything had turned lousy since the Aseancon case. He had to find Anna, the one who hated him so much, the one who blamed him. He blamed her, he’d need a place in the queue; everyone else was looking for her as well. He had to find Tilly Superstar, that ex-cover girl, the magazine model; she or somebody else had set him up. He needed to walk away…walk before he had to run.
Special Agent Tanaka was the total opposite to Agent Jackson. Born in Honolulu to third generation Japanese American parents, he was a picture of integrity and ethics. Everything by the book. Didn’t speak a word of his forefathers’ language; his parents forbade it inside the house, even when family and friends came around. His parents attended church, observed Christmas and were on the local school PTA. Went to all the baseball games. He was a studious youth but there were no shortages of schoolyard fights and the usual growing pains. Tanaka was no extrovert but he always stood his ground.
In high school he was a constant visitor to the museum, he was fascinated by the islands and he spent all his spare time there as a school student then a volunteer on weekends, loved the hills. Dreamt of being a volcanologist. That all changed one day after he had graduated high school; his mom had been attacked and robbed returning home one evening. Race-hate crime or robbery, nobody knew and the culprits never apprehended. Outraged, the young Tanaka applied for and was accepted into the Hawaii Police Department.
At age twenty seven he hooked up with his wife, an ambitious court reporter from the mainland; she had plans for him too. Tanaka returned to night school and studied law. Then the big move…away to the east coast and a new life. He applied for entry to the bureau, a job and a life on the career ladder.
He’d been in the Feds a couple of years by the time Nine-Eleven happened. A new era of reshuffling took place along with the soul-searching and blame-game, the enquiries and the shake-ups. Tanaka spent the days after in a stunned state of shock, unable to comprehend how anybody could have dared or even wished to do such a thing. Came as no surprise though, to many at the coalface. As he threw himself into work, like everybody around him his personal life was suffering.
Family breakup; followed by the failing health of his parents, and then the loss of his mom. He took leave on compassionate grounds and then returned with a new vigor -- the FBI was his family now and he knew little else. He had the highest prosecution and conviction rate in his section. But promotion had passed him by. He was a field agent for life and the best in the game.
Major Lowenstein and his controller, Colonel Abraham Hirsch, knew all about the two agents as well as the old guy. The spooks who fed the Intel, drip by drip, knew a whole lot more than they did.
JJ Hatfield would have made a great contact, at least back in nineties when he quit the marines. The running man felt sorry for him, the old grouch. Couldn’t have been much older than he was. Same era; just different wars. Only Lowenstein backed the winning side, every time.
They had PK Tanaka’s file, his school grades the lot. Tanaka was about as much use to the service as a G-string in a snow-storm, he was so straight and narrow the unit felt it was better to get him pulled out. Staunch sucker like that, he’d try to arrest the land unit, given half a chance.
They knew all about Mike Jackson before Operation Arcana even began, right back to his frat-days. They knew all about the call from Jackson’s line in the embassy to Cairo. They’d started digging, worried there may be terrorist links; they pulled as much dirt on him as they possibly could.
They found no such ties but what they did find was a crooked little bureaucrat who was lining his pockets as fast as he could. Made no difference at all; on the wrong side of the law or the right side, the spooks had hundreds of people -- maybe thousands -- like Jackson on a leash. An ideal mark for blackmail, he was more value to them alive than dead, no matter who he worked for.
Bad luck for soon to be ex-Special Agent Jackson…there was somebody else out there who didn’t quite see things that way.
