Gray Resurrection (2 page)

“Then go for the main men, not the foot
soldiers,” Grant said, despite his reticence to engage in conversation with the
man, his training and planning skills kicking in before he had a chance to stop
himself.

“You see, that’s what I mean.  You
hear the problem and immediately have the solution."

“Don’t try and blow smoke up my arse, it
won’t work.  Besides, I’m out of that whole business now.  You’ll
have to find someone else.”

“This isn’t up for discussion,
Sam.  You either do as we ask, or things get very uncomfortable for
you.” 

“What are you going to do?” Grant
laughed.  “Come and visit me every day?  I’m a free man.”

“I was thinking more of having the lease
on your company offices cancelled, or maybe retracting your Barangay clearance
to operate a business.  That puts your staff out of work and your business
goes down the pan.  I can also stop all withdrawals from your bank
account, leaving you without a pot to piss in.”

Farrar nodded toward Alma, who was just
finishing up with the hose.  “Do you really think your dolly bird will
hang around when she finds out you can’t support her anymore?”

He enjoyed the pained look on Grant’s
face at the thought of losing his bed warmer, a look that swiftly turned to
anger.

“I’ll do one job, but with conditions,”
Grant said, more than a touch of hostility in his voice.  Farrar started
to object but Grant cut him off.  “I want some of my old team with me.
Sonny Baines, Len Smart and Tristram Barker-Fink all helped come up with the
plan last year, and I want their help again.”

“Impossible.  The fewer people
involved the better.”

“It’s not negotiable, Farrar.  As
you’ve already said, they don’t need to know who they’re working for; they just
need to follow instructions.  I’m sure you’ll have front companies that
can employ them at proper contractor rates, so make it happen.”

Farrar wasn’t accustomed to having
people dictate terms to him, and was determined to make that clear.  “It’s
out of the question.  We have no idea where these people are.  It
could take weeks to track them down.”

“That’s bullshit.  I could call
their mobiles and be talking to them in a couple of minutes.  The only
reason I haven’t spoken to them in the last year is because you told me not
to.  I’ve done everything you asked of me, so it’s time you gave me
something in return.”

Farrar considered the request a little
more and decided the time was right to accede to Grant’s demand.  “Okay,
you can have Smart and Baines.  Unfortunately, Tristram bought it in Iraq
a few months ago.”

“How?”

“I don’t have all the details,” Farrar
said.  “All I know is he was doing some bodyguard work and his client was
attacked by a large force.  The agency he worked for couldn’t give us any
further information.”

Grant gazed out of the window, staring
at nothing in particular as he thought about his good friend.  Tris had served
with him in the regiment and they had shared a couple of tours in Iraq, and
Grant had subsequently hired him when he was managing director of Viking
Security Services.  When Grant – in his previous incarnation as Tom Gray –
had first come up with the notion of kidnapping five habitual criminals in
order to force the government to come down harder on repeat offenders, it was
Tris who had been the most supportive, helping mould the initial
spur-of-the-moment idea into a solid, viable plan.  Tris had also been one
of the people to administer CPR when he’d been seriously injured in the
explosion that had brought his four-day siege to an abrupt end, and he had
never been able to thank him. 

In fact, Grant hadn’t spoken to any of
his friends since his arrival in the Philippines.  He’d been tempted,
obviously, but he knew that Farrar would be monitoring all of their incoming
calls.  If he’d tried to contact them, Farrar would have known about it.

Farrar’s main concern, however, was that
Grant might reveal the fact that he was actually Tom Gray, a man for whom the
people of Britain had held a two-week protest demanding his release from
custody.  The official line was that Tom Gray had died from his injuries,
when in fact he had been spirited out of the country to prevent him causing the
government any further embarrassment.  Grant had long ago considered the
implications should the world find out that Tom Gray was still alive, and it
didn’t look rosy.  Farrar would certainly follow through with his earlier
threat to have him killed, at the very least.  He might even go as far as
to terminate all others who knew about him, and that included some good friends
back in England.

Although he hadn’t asked to be placed in
this predicament, Sam Grant knew he had to deal with it, and had been doing
quite a good job up until the last few minutes.

He turned back to Farrar, a steely look
in his eyes.  “I want Sonny and Len here before we set off, plus full
details of the operation.  We’ll travel together and I’ll brief them on
the journey.”

“Don’t push your luck, Sam.  You
may be good at what you do, but you’re not indispensable.”

They sat staring at each other for a
full minute, and it was Farrar who backed down first.  “Okay, I’ll give
you the details on Monday and get Baines and Smart here by Tuesday
evening.  Just be ready to fly on Thursday afternoon.”

“How long will I be gone?”

“It shouldn’t take more than a couple of
weeks.  It all depends on how quickly you can devise and then execute your
plan.  We’ll give you the target, you do the rest.”

Grant nodded and opened the door, glad
to get back out into the warm evening air.  He didn’t look back as he
headed towards the house and he heard Farrar reverse off the driveway and
disappear towards the subdivision gates. 

Inside the house he found Alma preparing
pulutan
for the evening’s game of
Tong-its
, a rummy-like card
game the locals enjoyed playing, especially for money.  The stakes were
never high but it made for a good night’s entertainment, particularly when
accompanied by a few San Miguel beers, his neighbours and a table full of
pulutan
,
drinking-food to soak up the alcohol.  Grant had always been one to drink
first and eat later, but he had slipped comfortably into the habit of picking
at the array of small dishes throughout a drinking session.  Popular
dishes included
Sisig
, which consisted of ground pigs’ ear and liver,
and
Tokwa’t Baboy
, toasted tofu and boiled ham in garlic-flavoured soy
sauce.  Alma had become famous with the local men for her generous
servings, and there was never an empty chair on card night at the Grant
household.

Grant hugged Alma from behind as she
washed the rice in a large pan to get rid of the starch.  He stood a good
eighteen inches taller than her, and had to stoop to kiss her affectionately on
the neck.  He then checked the supply of San Miguel and saw that he was
down to less than a crate, so he grabbed a five-hundred Peso note and headed
towards the door.

“Just gonna get some more beer,” he told
her, and got a smile in reply.

Like many Filipinas, Alma didn’t drink;
they tended to leave that to the Filipino men.  She enjoyed the card
evenings immensely, though, as it meant the wives would join their husbands in
the house.  The men would sit out in the garden while the ladies spent the
evening inside, usually doing cross-stitch while sharing the weeks’ gossip.

Grant returned from the local shop
within five minutes, his arms straining under the weight of two crates of San
Miguel.  The beers went into the drinks fridge, which he’d bought specifically
for Saturday nights, and then he headed to the bathroom to have a shower.

The guests began arriving just after
eight that evening, with Mr. Lee the first as always.

“Sam, how are you?  How’s
business?”

“Booming,” Grant said.  “How’s the
Lee empire coming along?”

Albert Lee had a string of shops in all
the major malls dotted throughout Manila, and seemed to open a new one every
time they met.  “I’m meeting with two companies next week.  If either
of them can provide a suitable delivery service I will be in a position to sign
up to your website.”

Grant was happy at the news, but it
reminded him that he had to make arrangements for his office manager, Alfredo,
to take over for a fortnight.  He also had to break the news to Alma, but
thought it best to wait until they were alone.

The evening began well, with each of the
five guests doing their best to outdo each other in the business stakes. 
One would announce that he had secured a new contract with a major supplier,
and another would trump that with an international order.  The banter was
light-hearted, but Grant wondered if they would put so much effort into their
work if they didn’t have their Saturday night bragging rights to look forward
to.

Grant himself wasn’t one for getting
into pissing contests, no matter how good-natured, so he settled for soaking up
information about the current trading conditions.  He just learned of a
new competitor in the online market who had been canvassing his friends when
the need to pee grabbed him, so he excused himself and made his way to the CR,
or Comfort Room, the Filipino term for the toilet.  On his way past the
living room he saw Alma in tears, being comforted by her friends.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, taking a seat
next to her, but Alma was too consumed with grief to answer.

“Her brother died today,” a friend
said.  “She just got a phone call from her mother.”

Grant wrapped his arms around Alma and
hugged her tight.  He knew she had a brother and a much younger sister as
she was always talking about them, and was always sending a few Pesos home to
help them out.  She was so proud of her brother for being near the top of
his class despite his poor background, and now that bright light had been
extinguished.

“How did it happen?” Grant asked her
friends in a hushed voice, but all he got was shrugs in response.  He
wasn’t about to push Alma in her present state, so he let the question
lie.  A friend appeared with a glass of water and Grant offered her the
seat next to his girlfriend, then he went outside to call an early end to the
game.

His guests were understanding and went
inside to offer Alma their support, but by this time she had regained a little
control and assured them she would be okay.  After making some more
consoling noises their friends began to drift off into the night, leaving the
couple alone.

Alma began to open up, and she replayed
the brief conversation she’d had with her mother.  “Arlan didn’t come home
from school at the usual time and Mama was really angry.  She thought he’d
gone out with his girlfriend, but when Maritess called asking to speak to him
she got worried and called the police.  That was when she found out that
he’d been shot.  The police said it was a robbery, but Arlan had nothing
worth stealing...”

Her words tapered off as the tears came
again, and just after midnight she finally drifted off to sleep in his arms.

Chapter 2

Sunday 15th
April 2012

Grant woke up on the sofa alone, a thin
ray of sunlight blinding him as it broke through a gap in the curtains. 
He immediately remembered the events of the previous evening and went in search
of Alma, eventually finding her in their bedroom.  She was packing a
holdall with clothes and a few toiletries and she looked up at him as he
appeared in the doorway, her eyes still red.

“Kumusta?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” she said, resuming her
packing.  “But I have to go home for the funeral.  I’ll be back in a
couple of days.”

Grant moved into the room and gave her a
hug.  “I understand.  I’ll come with you.”

“Are you sure?  What about the
office?  Who will run things while you’re gone?”

“It’s fine.  Alfredo can manage.”

“It’s not really safe in Isabela City,”
Alma said, concern etched on her face.   “Maybe you should stay here,
I’ll be back soon.”

“Darling, if it isn’t safe, I’m
definitely coming.”

Alma smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

“How do we get there?” Grant asked her.

“We can take a flight to Zamboanga City
and then take the boat across the Basilan Strait to Isabela.  There’s a
plane leaving just after two this afternoon.”

Grant checked his watch, added on three
hours to get through the Manila traffic and realised he only had an hour and a
half to get ready.  “Call and book the tickets and book a taxi,” he said.
“I’ll go and take a shower.”

He finished washing in less than five
minutes and as he dried himself he realised he would have to call Farrar to let
him know where he was going.  After getting dressed he punched the
speed-dial number and the call was answered on the second ring.

“What?”

There’s no end to this guy’s manners,
Grant thought.  “I’m taking off for a few days,” he replied.  “I
should be back late Tuesday night, maybe Wednesday.”

“Taking off?  Where to?  This
is no time for a holiday!”

Grant explained the situation but Farrar
was unfazed by the news.  “My condolences and all that, but you’re staying
put.  She can go down there herself.”

“I wasn’t calling to ask your
permission; I’m letting you know so that you can tell Len and Sonny that the
key to my house will be with my next door neighbour.  Tell Sonny to
introduce himself as cousin Bob and they can make themselves comfortable until
I get back.”

“You really are the most insolent,
jumped up —”

Grant ended the call and turned the
phone off.  He considered leaving it in the house while he was away, but
he needed to be available should Alfredo have any problems at the office, so he
tucked it into his jeans and began filling his sports bag with enough clothes
for three days.  In went socks, underpants, T-shirts and shorts, along
with a spare pair of jeans and his toiletries: shaving kit; toothbrush and
toothpaste; and soap.  The final item was his bottle of Off Lotion insect
repellent. 

Farrar might be an arsehole, but he was
right about the bloody mosquitoes.

The taxi arrived early to take them to
Ninoy Aquino airport, which was just as well as traffic was exceptionally
heavy, even for Manila.  They got to the Cebu Pacific Air desk and picked
up their tickets with a couple of minutes to spare, then rushed through the
departure lounge to the boarding gate. 

Grant was glad to see that the plane was
an Airbus A319 rather than some ten-seater turbo-prop, and he enjoyed a snack
on the flight, his first bite of the day.

An hour and a half later they arrived in
Zamboanga City and took a taxi to the port, where Grant opted for the MS Weesam
Express as it took just forty-five minutes to make the crossing and had air
conditioning, as opposed to the normal ferry which took an hour longer and
would leave him at the mercy of the late afternoon sun.

Once they disembarked they had a choice
of vehicles to take them to their destination.  Grant declined the offer
of bicycles and motorcycles, both with sidecars capable of carrying two
passengers, and chose instead to splash out an extra hundred pesos on a taxi.

The journey to the house where Alma grew
up took just fifteen minutes, and as with the rest of the journey she sat in
silence, looking out of the side window at nothing in particular.  He did
the same, not wanting to interrupt her thoughts, knowing full well what she was
going through.  It was almost two years since his son had died at the
hands of a car thief, and less than a year later he had lost his wife, too, so
he appreciated that there were moments when it was appropriate to talk and
times when he should leave her to her reflections.

The only time she spoke was towards the
end of their journey.

“Mama doesn’t know about...us,” she told
him.  “Can I introduce you as my boss?”

Grant assured her he was fine with that,
but pointed out that it would be awkward if they were going to sleep under the
same roof.  Alma hadn’t thought that far ahead, and was grateful when he
offered to stay at a local hotel.

When they arrived at their destination
he was surprised to see around thirty people sitting outside in the
street.  Most were playing cards, piles of money in the middle of the
tables.  The house itself was more like an old allotment shed, with the
front wall made of two wooden doors nailed horizontally onto a makeshift frame. 
The inside was no better: the floor was bare concrete; cheap plasterboard lined
the internal walls; and the only sign of technology was a portable television
on a wooden sideboard.

In the centre of the small living room a
couple of tables had been shoved together and on top was an open casket. 
Toddlers were chasing each other around it, laughing and giggling, while
parents sat around the edge of the room chatting and eating.  In the small
kitchen towards the back of the house three women were preparing yet more food,
and looking round he wondered where they could possibly put it.  Every
available inch of space was already taken up with bowls of rice; pork, chicken
and fish dishes; and copious amounts of soft drinks.

Alma was staring at the peaceful face of
her sibling when a woman in her late forties entered the room and came towards
them.

Alma threw her arms around her. 
“Mama.”

They hugged for some time before Alma’s
mother noticed the stranger staring at them.  Introductions were made and
Grant found that she spoke very little English, but Alma translated and Grant
replied with some of the Tagalog phrases he had learnt over the last few
months.

A plate heaped with rice and pork was
suddenly thrust into his hand and he was ushered outside to a spare seat. 
Alma remained inside to catch up with her family, so he got stuck in.  One
of the locals at the table spoke passable English and sparked up a
conversation, though Grant was more interested in the food than
chit-chat.  He answered questions about his past as truthfully as he
could, though at times he had to be economical with his words.

A police car pulled up and he watched
the sole occupant get out.  He gave Grant a curious glance as he passed,
then walked into the house.  Through the open door Sam saw him cuddle
Alma, a little too passionately for his liking, so he polished off his food and
went inside on the pretence of grabbing a second helping.  Alma stopped
him on his way to the table and introduced the officer.

“This is Lorenzo,” she said.  “We
went to school together.”

Grant shook his hand.  “Sam,” he
smiled, wondering what it was they’d done together
after
school.

“Lorenzo was just telling me that Arlan
wasn’t killed in a robbery.”

The officer gestured for her to keep her
voice down.  “That’s what I believe,” he said softly.  “There was a
message attached to one of the other victims which tells me he was caught up in
a gang war.”

“Arlan wasn’t in a gang,” Alma said with
indignation.

“I know.  We think he was just in
the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What was the message?” Grant asked.

“It said ‘Basilan belongs to Abu
Sayyaf’.”

“Who’s he?”

“Not a He,” Alma said.  “Abu Sayyaf
is a Muslim independence group.”

“More like terrorists,” Lorenzo
said.  “And they want complete control of the region.  There have
been many gang killings in the last few months and we believe they want to
eliminate all of their competition.”

“But why was Arlan’s death reported as a
robbery?” Grant asked.

“Because certain members of the police
would prefer that Abu Sayyaf incidents are not reported to the mainland. 
It might affect their income.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The senior police officers receive
payments from Abu Sayyaf and turn a blind eye to their activities,” Lorenzo
said.  “Their crimes are attributed to others and they are allowed to
operate as they wish.”

“Are all policemen on the payroll?”
Grant asked Lorenzo quizzically, and the Filipino resented the suggestion.

“No,” he said, a little too loudly,
drawing looks from others in the room.  He noticed the attention and
dropped his voice a little.  “Some of us actually believe in the role
we’ve been given.  That’s why I wanted Alma to know the truth.”  He
looked at both of them in turn.  “Don’t tell anyone what I just told you.”

Grant and Alma nodded solemnly.

“Where are you staying in Isabela?”
Lorenzo asked him, his voice back to its normal level.

“I was hoping to find a hotel for a
couple of days,” Grant said, although sensing a history between these two he
was no longer sure he wanted to let Alma out of his sight.

“I know a good hotel not far from here,”
Lorenzo said.  “I can take you if you like, but we have to be quick; the
reception closes early.” 

Grant looked at Alma and she nodded at
him.  “Go, I’ll come and get you in the morning.”

 He grabbed his bag and followed
Lorenzo to the car, and as they pulled away he looked back at the house and saw
Alma in the doorway, offering a surreptitious wave which he returned through
the open window.

“Alma tells me she works for you,”
Lorenzo said as they drove sedately through the evening traffic.  “What
does your company do?”

“We build websites for online shopping.”

The concept was lost on the policeman,
so Grant explained the principle.

“Does it make a lot of money?” Lorenzo
asked.

“At the moment we only make about a
million pesos a month, which is just about enough to break even. 
Hopefully we can start showing a healthy profit in the next twelve months.”

Lorenzo whistled, impressed with the
figures although he didn’t appreciate the fact that it barely covered Grant’s
outgoings.  The numbers were still going round in his mind as he helped
Grant check in to the hotel, and after he made a mental note of the room number
he left his charge to settle in for the evening.

“I suggest you stay in your room
tonight,” he told Grant.  “The streets of Isabela are not safe for a
stranger, especially after dark.  Abu Sayyaf are everywhere, and you would
make a good trophy for them.”

Grant agreed to the suggestion.  He
took the stairs to the first floor and found room one zero eight, and once
inside he realised that his idea of ‘good’ differed hugely from
Lorenzo’s.  The bedding had seen better days – not to mention a lot fewer
stains – and the toilet was functional in that there was a pot to sit on but no
cistern to flush his bodily fluids away.  Instead, a bucket full of water
and a large ladle had been provided.  His morning ritual for the next
couple of days would consist of shit, scoop, shower and shave. 

The television offered only local channels,
so he settled on the bed, wishing he’d brought a book along, but at the same
time thankful for the insect repellent.

In the street below, Lorenzo sat in the
patrol car looking up at the second floor.  He toyed with the phone in his
hand as he wondered what exactly there was between his old girlfriend and this
foreigner.  It didn’t make sense for a company owner to accompany a member
of staff to their home town for a funeral unless it was more than just a
working relationship. 

When Alma had announced that she was
going to Manila to stay with family just after her twenty-fifth birthday he had
been devastated.  He had been trying to cultivate a romance between them
for the previous three years, building on their friendship.  He would visit
her in the evenings and often bring his guitar to jam with Arlan, though she
rarely took up his offer to meet on the weekends, insisting that was family
time.

Then she’d dropped the bombshell,
dashing all of his dreams.  He’d tried to persuade her not to go, to stay
with him, but she’d wanted more for her family and saw Manila as the place to
find a better opportunity.  He’d relented after a while, convincing
himself that she would be back within a few weeks, but as the months wore on
her letters told him she was doing well and really enjoying the new
challenge.  Whenever he had written to her he’d casually joked about her
new man but she had always assured him that she wasn’t looking for a
boyfriend.