by Howard Upton
The gate attendant called out in English and Spanish that their plane would begin boarding momentarily and to please have their boarding passes in hand when they reached the gate. They were seated next to one another on each leg of their flights, which made the possibility of speaking about the mission a little easier, as the sound of the engines and the air flowing through the cabin would help drown out their voices. The men knew their voices would carry around their gate area, and they couldn’t afford to have any of the masses overhear them.
They boarded the plane with no luggage. Evers had never made it back to his hotel to retrieve his and Buddy had left his with Dugan in the rental car. “No big deal, Buck. Since we have a twelve hour layover in Manila we can go to the Glorietta Mall in Makati and get some new clothes. Plus, I like walking around there and looking at all those pretty Filipino girls,” he said with a perverted grin.
“You’re a sick old bastard, Buddy Smith,” Evers said with a chuckle. “Where’s Makati? Do we really have time to leave Manila?”
“Makati is the financial center of Manila and it’s not too far from Aquino Airport. We can take a cab, grab our supplies and be back to the airport in no time. Of course, we’ll have to take some time to sip on Lambanog. That’s good stuff, son. It’ll put hair on your little testicles,” Buddy said jokingly. “And that might give me enough time to find me a fine little Filipino woman to pack up in a suitcase and bring back with me. Those women know how to take care of their men. You hear me?”
“Would you stop with the woman talk, Buddy? Let’s stay focused. I am curious about Lambanog though. I assume that’s some sort of liquor?
“Hell no, it’s not some sort of liquor. This stuff is sometimes called ‘gin’ or even ‘vodka,’ but in reality it’s wine. It’s fermented coconut milk and I’m here to tell you, son, it’s the finest thing since sliced bread, and I like sliced bread,” Buddy explained in only a way he could.
“Well, I just hate that we have such a long layover in Manila. We need to be getting on with our business on the mainland,” Evers said in a lowered voice.
“Nah. It’s really a good thing in the grand scheme, Buck. We have to have visas on top of our passports to cross into mainland China. Our Mexican friend didn’t have time to work on that for us. Hell, we were lucky to come up with the passports in such short order. But I know a guy in Manila who can help us out. The layover will give him time to make sure the documents are perfect without raising any suspicion,” Buddy said.
“Is there a country in this world where you don’t know a guy?” asked Evers only half-jokingly.
Buddy thought for a moment then seriously replied, “Nope. Like I said, Buck...a man always has to have a back-up plan. Sometimes that back-up plan means knowing people in certain areas, sometimes it simply means knowing your terrain, and other times it means knowing your opponent’s weaknesses. Whatever the case might be, I always try to have a go-to out there just in case things go to shit in a hand basket.”
Evers closed his eyes for the duration of the short trip to Mexico City. Mercifully, he didn’t dream.
Islas de Socorro
Revillagigedo, Mexico
July 23, 2013 12:12 P.M.
Dugan found some duct tape in a tool box and modified the plastic oxygen tube from one of the plane’s oxygen masks in order to fully subdue Rafael. He taped the Mexican’s mouth shut and tied his wrist behind his back with the tubing. Duct tape also wound around his ankles securing them to the bottom of his seat. Dugan admired his work as he sat back in his own seat. He stared at Rafael, rather he stared through him, as he thought about the connection between the cartouche and its former keeper.
The jet descended onto Socorro Island in order to refuel. Although the plane still had a considerable amount of fuel remaining in its tanks, the pilot had briefed Dugan on the need to stop and get more before the long voyage across the Pacific to Tarawa Island, which lay considerably south of Hawaii and just north of the equator. Dugan had demanded that the plane never touch down on U.S. soil because he didn’t know what Smith had told his superiors. As a result of that demand, several stops had to be made along their erratic route to China. From Hawaii all the way to Kingman Reef, the United States had laid claim on the various island chains. He couldn’t afford to risk capture in any holdings of the U.S., or anywhere for that matter, so he was forced to fly out of his way to avoid notice.
Islas de Revillagigedo was a Mexican holding with no public airport, but his contracted pilot had made arrangements for them to refuel at a small privately owned airport on the largest island in the archipelago. Leaving Rafael neatly secured, Dugan stepped off the plane while they waited for the fuel truck. The sky was an intense blue and the air fresh with the wonderful salty scent of the ocean.
The island’s mountainous terrain was covered in trees and vegetation. Close to the airport was a small sea inlet allowing a few sailboats to cruise across its glassy surface. There didn’t appear to be much activity on the small island beyond some tourism and basic island living. I just don’t have it in me to live this way; it’s such a waste of time, Dugan thought.
He milled around for some time, growing increasingly impatient. After forty-five minutes passed, he found his pilot.
“Would you care to tell me what the fuck is taking us so long? I’m paying you to fly, not dick around on some remote Mexican island!” he exclaimed.
“We are on island time, sir. It’s much different here than it is on the mainland. People move when they feel like moving. My contact here is at a bar in the village. He said when he was finished he would come over and fuel up the plane,” he explained.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dugan yelled! “You get that ignorant asshole over here now and tell him to fill up this damned plane, do you understand?”
The pilot looked at his employer with a great deal of patience, almost sympathetically. He nodded his understanding then replied, “Yes, sir. But you must appreciate the sensitivities involved in making demands of the only man on the island with access to jet fuel. No amount of money or screaming will get him here any faster. He lives on his own time and has plenty of money. Should we pursue your course of action he most likely will tell us to get lost and refuse to fuel up the plane. If that happens, you can forget getting to your destination on this aircraft.”
“So, what do you recommend?” asked Dugan a little more calmly. He was still perturbed but the pilot’s voice of reason caused him to moderate his tone, if only somewhat.
“I recommend stretching your legs, as you are doing now, or going on the plane and resting. Either way, I caution against pushing our host, elsewise we go back to mainland Mexico. Let him drink. If it costs us a couple of hours, what’s the harm?” he answered lucidly.
Losing more time didn’t make Dugan feel any better about this layover. At this rate we’ll never get to Xi’an, he thought. He decided to turn his attention back to Rafael. It was his hope he could be reasoned with, even if it meant making promises he never intended on keeping.
“I need you and your co-pilot to exit the plane while we wait, Captain. There is a pressing need for me to have a private conversation with our passenger. I hope that won’t inconvenience either of you. And I do appreciate your logical approach and rationale in awaiting your contact here on the island,” he said diplomatically.
The pilot nodded his head and stepped into the cabin to retrieve his co-pilot. Both men walked away from the plane pretending to discuss their pending flight path and next stop. They secretly wondered about the ghostly thin man that their passenger had pushed on the plane. Neither the pilot nor co-pilot dared ask Dugan about his guest, as Dugan didn’t look like the type of man who felt the need to explain himself.
Dugan stepped back into the fuselage of the plane to find Rafael awake and struggling against his bindings. He sat next to his prisoner, studying him for a few moments before speaking. Rafael stopped resisting against his constraints and met Dugan’s gaze. A few uneasy s
econds passed and he was forced to drop his eyes in stark resignation. The mental battle was over before it really ever began, and Dugan had won.
His captor reached over and ripped the duct tape from his mouth. He grunted as the pain subsided into burning, his cheeks and chin raw and sticky. His face was a strange paradox of brown and red with two small streaks of adhesive remaining.
Rafael mumbled, “Why are you doing this to me? Why not just kill me and get it over with? I’ve told you I have nothing else to say to you about the cartouche and what it revealed to me.”
Dugan hid his displeasure and impatience, deciding it was better to take a different course with the man. The time he spent in the Agency in the Special Interrogation Unit had afforded him a skill set that had served him well over the years. Despite contrary screaming from the political left, water boarding, and other methods of inflicting mental anguish on a person, revealed significant and essential intelligence. However, those opposed to such methods were correct about one thing: a man will say anything to end his personal torture, so the interrogator was forced to separate truth from fiction. Where his colleagues usually got it wrong, and where he excelled, was understanding how to take a man to his mental break point, but stopping just before pushing him over the edge.
A good interrogator would push forward, stop before breaking the man’s spirit completely, then repeat the process for days or even weeks. When the man’s will to live was almost depleted he was at his most vulnerable. This was where the rest of his fellow SIU comrades missed the boat, and it was here that Dugan learned to befriend his captive.
The man being tortured understood his captor was capable of becoming the madman who almost pushed him over the mental and physical edge. He also understood the man was now being nice to him and nursing him slowly back to health by allowing him food and drink, and sometimes dessert. Dugan would go so far as finding out his target’s favorite cigarette, if he smoked, and bring one to him, light it and put it in the man’s mouth.
Over time Dugan gleaned more actionable intelligence than any in the unit. In fact, he was recognized as the go-to guy for high level detainees and domestic enemies of the State. Behind his back his fellow specialists joked and said he was the only man on Earth who could squeeze blood from a turnip.
Dugan leaned forward letting his hot breath hit Rafael in the face. He had been harsh with the man earlier, and now he would switch to feigned kindness. Dugan took a deep breath and exhaled loudly.
“Look, my friend, I don’t enjoy having you secured like this. We’ve always had a good working relationship, and over the years I’ve taken a liking to you. Your work ethic is what kept me coming back to you each time, but unfortunately, we now find ourselves in a most peculiar situation. I really have no desire to terminate your life. I think we can find a mutually agreeable resolution to this predicament,” Dugan said.
“How is that? What do you propose that could possibly bring about an end to this impasse, Mr. Dugan? You have not been honest with me since the beginning. You told me your name was Haden and the cartouche was wanted as a relic in a private collection. I know both of these things are lies,” Rafael stated.
Dugan drew a thoughtful breath and replied, “What you said is correct, Rafael. I rarely ever use my real name while dealing in things many consider illicit. That way if the individual working for me, or doing business with me, is caught there is little the arresting body can do to track me down. This is also the reason I deal in cash, and never, ever write anything down. No paper trail and no proper identification. I’m sure you can appreciate my zeal when it comes to self-preservation. Insofar as the cartouche is concerned, there are things about it my client is interested in, but I can’t say that I’m fully attuned to his plans. That is the way of business, Rafael. So, to say my client wished to have it in his personal collection may have been a bit of a stretch, but it wasn’t entirely untrue.
“As a sign of good faith, sir, I would like to begin with this,” he said as he pulled a knife from his pocket and cut the tape from Rafael’s ankles, giving him much relief and the freedom to stretch his legs. They ached from being bound.
“As I see it, releasing your feet from bondage is a gesture of my intent, my friend. Your hands can be freed as well. But understand, I still have in my mind the fact that you pulled a gun on me back in the airplane hangar, so forgive me if I remain somewhat skittish and eye you with suspicion,” Dugan said with an arched eyebrow.
Rafael continued stretching his legs, flexing them up and down at the knee, attempting to get the blood flowing in his lower extremities. He watched his legs move then looked back over at Dugan and said, “This changes nothing. I have no desire or reason to tell you what the jewel has shown me. In my heart I know it can be of no use to you.” He let his last sentence hang in the air for a few seconds without making direct eye contact with Dugan.
“I see,” Dugan said. “Well, do you mind if I ask you a question unrelated to the cartouche, Rafael?” He asked this, having now used the man’s given name a few times, something he had never done in the course of their relationship. It was with some effort that he forced the niceties to flow. Before Rafael could answer he rose, walked to the rear of the plane and returned with two bottles of water. He twisted the cap off one and pushed it toward Rafael’s mouth.
Rafael was happy to slurp down the water. His throat was parched and his mouth sticky with dryness. Dugan poured the water down his throat liberally and watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. A little water missed his mouth and dripped down his chin and chest.
Dugan sat the bottle of water down then asked, “Rafael, do you mind if I ask if that is your real name? I assume it is, but just want to confirm. It’s a harmless question, really. Now that you know my name I think it only fair to assure I know yours.”
“Yes, Mr. Dugan. My name is Rafael. That is what my father named me, after his father, my grandfather. At least that is what I always understood. Does that satisfy your curiosity?” he asked.
“Of course, Rafael, thank you. You look hungry. Allow me to get some food for you,” he said as he rose a second time. Once again he walked to the back of the plane and after a few moments came back with a heated tray of food, obviously warmed in the plane’s microwave.
The food’s delicious aroma grabbed Rafael’s attention. So engrossed had he become with the cartouche over the last few weeks that he had completely neglected his hunger pangs. The smell of processed turkey and green beans filled the cabin making his stomach growl loud enough that Dugan heard it.
As he had with the water, he sat it down then reached across and carefully untied Rafael’s hands. He remained within easy reach of his knife if he needed it, but he doubted that would be the case. Rafael had grown increasingly cooperative in the passing moments since their discussion had begun.
Dugan handed him the food and a plastic fork, followed by another bottle of water. Rafael shoveled the food into his mouth. It looked as though his teeth barely touched the meal before he swallowed it. He reached for the water and washed the dry turkey down.
While he ate Dugan began speaking again. “You know, I realize you’ve only recently known me as ‘Dugan,’ so I think it’s fair that you know my first name – Daniel. Most people I associate with call me Dan. Now you know my first and last name. It’s been my experience that knowing someone’s first and last name allows a person a certain bond with the individual who hears it."
Rafael chewed a little more slowly as he listened to Dugan, not sure where he was going with the conversation. His mistrust was great but he had removed his bindings and given him food and water.
“I find this a perfect time for us to get to know one another, Rafael. After all, we have little else on our hands now except for...time. So, tell me, what is your last name?”
Rafael looked at his former employer and asked, “You still haven’t told me where you are taking me. It’s difficult for me to trust someone who can’t explain where he’s taking me.”
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“You are quite correct, Rafael. I’ll make you a deal – an answer for an answer. How about that? I think that’s very fair. You tell me your last name and I’ll tell you our destination,” he said.
Rafael chomped his food and thought about why Dugan was interested in his last name. He couldn’t think of a good reason not to tell the man because, after all, he had freed him and given him food.
“My last name is Chao,” said Rafael.
Dugan’s heart pounded in his chest as his assumption was confirmed. A Chinese last name! I knew it. The cartouche has attached itself to a family member just as the story was told. A grin slowly spread across his face and he had to look away to keep Rafael from seeing his elation.
“Rafael Chao,” Dugan repeated, regaining his composure. “Have you ever thought about how strange that sounds, my friend? That sir name doesn’t sound very Latino to me. Does it to you?” he asked.
Rafael paused to consider his answer then responded, “I guess I never really stopped to think about how different it sounded, Mr. Dugan. Many of my friends have similar sounding last names. Names such as Chen, Huang and Chao are very common in my area. We tend to look a little more native than many other Mexicans, too. But growing up in our circumstances we never thought about our names. We thought mostly about food and clothes. That’s what was important to us then. It’s not so different for a lot of the kids now."
Dugan listened to Rafael’s social discourse on the plight of Mexico’s children with little interest. His desire to unleash the magic of the jewel he had in his possession precluded any sentimentality he would have toward a kid starving in the streets of Mexico, or anywhere else for that matter.
He did, however, have to maintain an open dialogue with Rafael, at least for the time being, so Dugan kept his eyes fixed on him in an effort to simulate interest. He nodded his head in all the right places as Rafael spoke, grunted when he was supposed to, and shook his head on cue. There were few on the planet who could match his skills in the realm of deception and manipulation, and he exhibited this ability during his conversation with Rafael.
