Whipsaw (8 page)

Harding tilted forward. The legs of his chair slammed into the wooden floor. "The man is not one of those ordinary baboons they've been sending that's the first thing you have to get through that dense skull of yours. He's different. You know what happened at the airport. For crying out loud, man, you were there. You saw what he did. You think that's an ordinary jerk from some desk at the State Department?"

"No, of course not."

"Well then? What in the hell do you think?"

"I think it'd be a lot easier taking him out if you gave us more information."

"I don't have anything more than I gave you. I'm working on it, but every well I drill is dry. That ought to tell you something. It sure tells me something. This guy is poison. Somebody knows we've got a pipeline, and they flushed this guy down the chute to smoke us out. He doesn't have to nail me to be useful to them, and that's the whole point. Whatever happens to him and I don't think they worry a hell of a lot about it they learn something. Something they don't know now. Get it?"

"I guess so..."

Harding exploded. "Damn it, man, there is no room for guessing. Not now, not this late. The clock is ticking, and we an't stop it. Too much has been set in motion. I can't call Cordero off now."

"We'll get him, don't you worry."

"I do worry. That's why I'm here and you're on that side of the desk. You don't have brains enough to worry. You don't realize this man could bring us down."

"I'm telling you, he won't. I'll take care of it. Whatever it takes, it'll get done. You can bank on that."

"Banks fail. I don't believe in banks. I believe in graveyards and tombstones. That's what granite is for. That's what carved in stone means. Finished. Final. I want a tombstone over that son of a bitch. And I want it now!"

"It's not far," Colgan said, climbing into the front seat and nodding to the driver.

"What is it you want to show me?" Bolan asked.

"You know what they say about the picture and the thousand words?" Bolan acknowledged he knew the cliche, and Colgan went on. "Well, if that's what a picture's worth, I'd need a thousand pictures. It's easier if you just see for yourself." The driver sensed that the conversation had ended for the moment, and kicked the clutch. The jeep jolted, then the gears engaged and it settled into a steady roll.

The sun had burned through the mist, and Bolan was stunned by the beauty of the valley. Far to the east, the rugged Sierra Madre range looked like a silver ripsaw standing an the top edge of its blade. Beyond it, Bolan knew, the Pacific stretched for thousands of miles, its rolling swells barely disturbed by the occasional island.

To the west, the even more majestic Cordillera Central ran through the middle of the Luzon, as hard and unyielding as I spine in the back of a trout. In the lowlands the jungle was bigger than a universe. Mile after mile of green, broken by spectacular sprays of red and yellow, blue and orange, and purple so brilliant it seared the retina.

Everything in the vest seemed to move in a hurry.

Birds and butterflies, each trying to outdo the other with the extravagance of its colors, milled among the thick green leaves, flashing past and vanishing in an instant.

It was on this very island that a generation of young men, now slow, grey grandfathers, had fought the Japanese. It was on this same island that a younger generation of Filipinos fought against the remnants of colonial oppression with the passion and naivete so typical of young men. The first generation had won and the second had lost. And of the survivors, very few of either generation knew for certain what had been gained and how much it had cost.

That history was all around. Helmets rusted on the jungle floor, little more useful than the broken shells of coconuts. Ruined rifles lay buried in leaves, their wooden stocks long since crumbled away. The tangled growth even swallowed the ruins of Mustangs and Zeros, hardly more now than rusting skeletons.

Bolan stared into the trees as if looking for ghosts. If he looked hard enough and long enough, he knew they'd be there. Glancing at Colgan, he tried to read the man's mind, but the body language was confusing, contradictory. On the one hand, he looked as relaxed and confident as any man Bolan had ever seen. He seemed to be perfectly at home in his surroundings. But deep inside Colgan something was ticking away, second by second, some unknown number was approaching zero. Bolan didn't want to think what might happen then.

"Hang on," the driver said, derailing Bolan's train of thought. He spun the wheel and nudged the jeep into a narrow lane. The trees grew so close to either side of the passage that Bolan could have spread his arms and touched one with the fingers of each hand. The grass was yellowed ire twin stripes, the ground beneath it rutted, showing free quent, though not recent, passage.

Colgan turned to him, moved his lips twice, then shoot his head. He had wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words. Finally he settled for a pointing finger. "Up ahead, not far." The trees began to recede from the lane. Their branches still interlaced overhead, but the driver was able to relax a little with the added leeway. The lane widened farther, then vanished altogether as they broke into a wide, grassy meadow. Twin tracks of grassless clay ran straight as an arrow across the open field. The driver shifted down as the land began to climb at a steeper angle.

Colgan started to fidget. His shoulders kept squirming, and his head swiveled from side to side.

Over Colgan's shoulder, Bolan could see one knee jumping as Colgan tapped his foot restlessly on the floor of the jeep. They reached the top of the rise, and the jeep tilted forward as they began a shallow descent.

A rank of trees marched toward them, the advance guard of an army. Bugs swarmed in the air and buzzed angrily around their heads. Bolan slapped at something that stung his neck and brought his hand away with the pulped insect still quivering in his palm.

He looked at it with distaste, then scraped it off on the back wan and rubbed his palm clean on his pants.

This stand of trees was thinner, and Bolan could see the right sparkle of reflected light among them. The water tippled, sending slashes of white through the leaves. The jeep entered the trees again, and the driver eased off on the accelerator.

Colgan tapped the driver on the shoulder.

"Okay, Carlos. We'll walk now. You wait here."

Carlos killed the engine, and the jeep rolled to a halt. Colgan sat for a minute, as if holding an internal debate, teen climbed down. Bolan followed him, shifting the M-16 on his lap to his shoulder in the same motion.

Colgan headed downhill, toward the water.

Bolan fell in beside him. "You ready to tell me what this is all about?" he asked.

Colgan shook his head. "I already told you you'll see for yourself."

They were fifty yards from the water when they broke out of the trees. Close up, Bolan saw the sparkle for the lie it was. The water, like all tropical rivers, was greenish brown. It moved sluggishly. No more than two hundred feet wide, it swept past them in a broad, shallow arc. On the far shore a flight of wading birds took off with frightened squawks, their wings beating air and water, then just air as they lifted off, trailing their long, snakelike legs behind them.

Monkeys in the forest on the far side shrilled, frightening parrots, which erupted like colored clouds and disappeared. An abrupt silence descended on them. When Colgan spoke, he whispered. "This way," he said. He headed upriver. On the uneven slope, his stride was stiff and awkward, that of a man whose legs no longer bent the way they should.

Looking ahead, Bolan saw several charred black squares. He knew immediately what they were.

A village had been razed, the huts burned to nothing. The stumps of their stilts stuck up like black thumbs. Heaps of ashes marked the contours of the village. He had seen it a thousand times in Vietnam. It was almost humbling, how quickly a home could turn to dust. A year from now, there would be no trace of this place. Already plants had rooted in the ash. Thick clumps of greenish-silver grass had sprouted, pushing the ashes up into small cones like volcanoes spewing green lava.

Over the entire scene, something ominous and oppressive choked Bolan, constricting his throat. He could smell it, and he knew what it was. But Colgan pushed on, seemingly oblivious.

And Bolan followed.

Carefully Colgan avoided stepping on the first patch of ashes, drifting toward the waterline before advancing again There was something ceremonial in the action. It was the ad of a man visiting a sacred shrine. Colgan's head was slumped forward on his chest, almost as if he were praying.

Methodically he threaded his way among the rectangular smears. Each of them bled downward, where rain had washed some of the ash toward the river.

The smell got stronger. Against the tree line, on the far side of the ruined village, a long, low mound ran perpendicular to the river. It was already half-green, covered with snaking vines, and grass sprouted haphazardly. Even flowers had taken root in the overturned earth.

Colgan stepped ten feet from the mound. The smell was overpowering now, and both men pinched their noses to keep it at bay. "There," Colgan muttered, his voice strangely unaffected. "There it is. Seventy-three men, women and children. Practically the entire population of the village that used to stand right here." He turned his head slowly, in a dreamlike silence, to see if Bolan understood what he was being told.

Bolan nodded his head. "What happened?" he asked.

"The Leyte Brigade. That's what happened. Charles Harding's handiwork, if you will."

"How do you know?"

"I know, that's all. Never mind how." Colgan dropped to one knee and crossed himself.

Bolan watched quietly as Colgan's lips ran through a silent prayer. When he had finished, Colgan stood up. He started to back away from the mound, then snapped his head sharply and turned away.

Bolan noticed the tears, but said nothing.

Head down, Colgan picked his way back through the ashes. He walked down toward the water and sat on a patch f grass. Bolan followed and took a seat next to him.

"Want to tell me about it?" he asked.

Colgan nodded his head. He opened his mouth, gasping like a landed trout, then swallowed hard.

"Marisa was here when it happened. Her grandmother is buried back there." Colgan pointed toward the mound without turning to look.

"And you're certain Harding had something to do with this?"

"Not personally, at least as far as I can prove, but his organization, yes. Without a doubt. Marisa was here. She saw it all. Do you understand? She saw it happen. They shot her in the head, left her for dead. She survived, but..."

Bolan didn't know what to say. He stared at the water, watching the play of light on its sluggish surface.

Colgan sighed. "You know, I can't understand why it always has to be this way. I just can't understand it."

"It doesn't," Bolan said.

Colgan turned to look at him. "You think that Marcos was the problem here. You think since he's gone, it doesn't have to be this way, but you're dead wrong. Marcos was only part of the problem. Now Aquino is the problem. Not because she's corrupt like Marcos, but because the same corruption is still there. The body rots from the inside out. You don't cure cancer by changing skins. That's cosmetics, not medicine. And it sure as hell isn't a cure. Aquino is a puppet and doesn't know it. She'll learn, but not before it's too late. It's too late already." Colgan stood and turned his back to Bolan.

Staring out at the wriggling surface of the dark water, he knotted his fists, squeezing his fingers into his palms as if he wanted to kill a tiny insect in each hand.

"The mushrooms, Belasko. Do you understand?" He whirled suddenly, waving a wild hand in a broad arc toward the mounds of ashes. Then, one long trembling finger extended, he pointed to the burial mound. "The stink that will never leave me. Not as long as Charles Harding and men like him, are free to walk the earth like decent human beings."

Bolan watched Colgan's face. Veins bulged at his tempo pies, and his eyes seemed to pulse blue light as they bored into the big guy.

"Do you know what it's like to be me, Belasko? I take human life, and I'm a doctor, for Christ's sake. A doctor... and I would throttle that man until his head snapped off like a dead flower. Me. A doctor..." He turned away again.

But the trembling finger still pointed its accusation, as if calling a jury's attention to a crucial fact it had overlooked.

But there was only Bolan to see, hear, and come to a conclusion.

Carlos was leaning against the jeep as Bolan made his way uphill. Colgan had wanted to stay behind for a moment, and Bolan understood. At the jeep he tried to engage Carlos in conversation, but the young man was anything but talkative. He gave polite, distant one-word answers, and after three tries, it was time to give up.

The sun beat down unmercifully, and Bolan wiped the sweat from his neck and forehead with a shirtsleeve. The insects seemed to be drawn to him, and hovered in small black clouds.

They buzzed distantly, swarmed in like Stukas, the buzz growing louder and louder, then veered off as he swatted at them, the noise fading again to a distant hum.

He kept thinking about what Marisa and Colgan had told him. The idea that a quasi-sanctioned American operation had been actively attempting to undermine the Aquino government would have seemed farfetched a few years ago. But the world had changed, and the rule of law was getting more than a little frayed around the edges.

Frustration appeared to make lawbreakers out of the best of men. Maybe it was to be expected.

Maybe it was even acceptable, but he didn't think so. A great deal could go wrong. The world was far too complicated to allow loose cannons to roll around. Somebody had to be in charge, and according to the Constitution, that man was the President.

Until further notice, anyway. The trouble was, too many people close to the President thought he ought to have more power than the Constitution gave him. So they did whatever they could to get him the result they knew he wanted. And to protect him, they lied about it. They lied to the President himself, to Congress, to the people, and most of them, Bolan knew, also lied to themselves.

But even if he took Colgan's words at face value, there were many unknowns. Who the hell was the man, anyway? Not New People's Army, clearly. And why would a rightwing paramilitary organisation, with U.S. funding and connivance of high-ranking Philippine Army officers, give a damn about him?

There was more to things than Colgan had told him that was for certain. And where did the man's money come from?

As Bolan mulled over the dozen mysteries, he watched Colgan climb the hill toward him, winding among the trees to appear for a moment, then vanish, only to appear again ten yards closer.

Colgan broke into the open and kicked at the grass as he climbed slowly toward the jeep. He heaved himself in and sat with his hands in his lap, staring at his feet. Bolan climbed over the back of the jeep and sat behind him. Carlos seemed unaware of anything as he finished puffing on his cigarette, letting the smoke out in long, thin streams through his nostrils. He fieldstripped the butt after a last, short drag, then got behind the wheel.

Carlos started the engine, took a sidelong glance at Colgan, then threw it in gear. They bounced through the ruts and up over the ridge. Carlos let the jeep coast down to ward the trees, then dropped a gear to navigate the narrow mouth of the lane leading back to the road.

"What exactly are you and what are you trying to do here, Mr. Colgan?" Bolan asked.

"I'm trying to be a rational alternative to violence, Mr. Belasko. That's what I am and what I believe, with every fiber of my being, is the only way for the Filipino people to drag themselves out of the poverty and the desolation that has held them down for three hundred years."

Bolan grunted. "Rather idealistic, don't you think?"

"Maybe. But I can't do it any other way. I came here for the first time twenty-five years ago, with the Peace Corps. I'll never forget it as long as I live. I went home at the end of my tour, and I thought I'd be happy if I never saw another case of leprosy, or another malnourished baby, for the rest of my life. But I was wrong. It haunted me, Belasko, it ate at me day and night. I knew about the NPA, and I knew that wasn't the way. Too many people have given their hearts and souls to grass-roots movements only to be betrayed by their leaders. It happened in Cuba, it happened in Nicaragua, in Ethiopia, in Angola. I knew it could happen here and I thought perhaps I could do something about it."

"And have you?"

"I think so. I'm proud of what we've accomplished in only five years."

"What have you accomplished?"

"We've built a dozen clinics for free medical care, not just on Luzon, but throughout the archipelago. More than fifty people have been put through school, and now they are working with us as lawyers, engineers and so on. We even have eleven doctors we have trained."

"And you think that can make a difference?"

"I know it can."

"In my experience, the only way to beat an extremist is to play by his rules. You have to be willing to do anything he's willing to do. Because if you're not, sooner or later he'll discover that fact, and the minute he does, he's won. He might as well have nuclear weapons. After all," Bolan said, shaking his head, "there has never been a moderate revolution."

"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Belasko. There was one."

"Oh, really?"

"The American revolution. There's never been anything like it. And I think it's high time we started teaching the rest of the world there is another way. Your philosophy only perpetrates the bloodshed, extends the killing through another generation. You don't teach people anything by shooting them, but you teach their children something."

"Then why do you have guns?"

"Because no matter what, I am still a realist." He turned and watched the trees go by.

Colgan seemed preoccupied as the jeep broke back into the open. Bolan studied him carefully.

There was something of the charlatan about the man, and something of the zealot. It almost seemed as if he weren't really in the same world. That Colgan had been genuinely moved by the visit was clear. But little else about him came even close to being transparent.

The sulking-hermit routine seemed to Bolan almost too pat, as if it had been carefully rehearsed until every second had been plotted with the exactness of science. It looked fine, until you looked closely. It was like a cheap tinfoil bell on a Christmas tree with the right lighting, it could be a crown jewel, but in the harsh light of day, one couldn't conceal just how tawdry it really was.

He wanted to push Colgan, but now wasn't the time. So soon after the theatrics, it would give the man an excuse to retreat behind wounded feelings. That he would be a marvel in that role was a certainty. Timing was everything, not only for Colgan, but for Bolan himself. And his gut told him something was askew. Only two possibilities suggested themselves. If Colgan was what he tried so hard to seem, then the man was mad. And if he was anything else, then he was, at the very least, a fraud. Neither choice boded well.

With Henson wasted, Bolan was up a very tall tree, way out on a limb without a telephone or a parachute. And he didn't have to close his eyes to imagine Colgan himself laughing over the snarl of a chainsaw. And yet he couldn't shake the feeling that Marisa was as genuine as Colgan seemed not to be. How could she not see what Bolan saw? How could she live with this man, watch him manipulate others so easily and not understand that he was using everyone he touched?

Up ahead Bolan spotted a second jeep, sitting just off the narrow road among the trees. He tapped Carlos on the shoulder and pointed. The kid nodded, then pointed the jeep out to Colgan. They started to slow down as Carlos stepped on the clutch and coasted a bit before shifting down a gear.

Colgan waved his arms over his head, and someone in the other jeep responded with the same gesture. Carlos nosed his jeep to the left and let it roll through the tall grass. Branches raked at his side of the jeep and snapped under the heavy tires. Bolan recognised neither of the two men in the other vehicle.

Carlos let his jeep roll to a stop, almost bumper to bumper with the other. Colgan climbed down and waved to Bolan to follow him. The driver of the other jeep dangled one leg over the side and turned to take Bolan's hand as he was introduced.

"Don McRae... Mike Belasko. He's the guy I told you about," Colgan said.

McRae looked Bolan up and down, as if trying to decide whether or not he could take him. His thin lips, compressed into a straight line, gave no hint of what he had decided. Bolan wished he could see McRae's eyes, but they were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. The bright lenses glinted as McRae bobbed his head up and down. Bolan could almost swear he'd seen the man before, but he couldn't remember where.

"What are you doing out this way, Don?" Colgan asked.

"Just checking things out. We had a woman in earlier to the clinic. She said she saw about a dozen guerrillas along the road here. Thought I better check it out. You know how they are. Anything on wheels is either NPA or army. But, hell, it can't hurt to make sure."

"See anything?"

"Nothin' at all, Tom. I was just getting ready to turn back around when we spotted you. Thought maybe she was right after all."

He laughed, but the laugh sounded forced to Bolan, who had taken an immediate dislike to the man.

"I guess maybe we'll go on up the road a ways. How far were you? Not visiting that camp again, were you?" When Colgan didn't answer, McRae continued. "Tommy, I don't know why in hell you keep going back there. Ain't nothing gonna change if you go a million times. Them people ain't gonna come back. Now you know that. And I know you know, 'cause I told you myself at least a thousand times."

Colgan looked off at the sky. In the quiet, Bolan could hear the wind in the canopy high above, the thick leaves slapping together like the flippers of trained seals.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd not be so cavalier, Don." Colgan sounded as if he were caught halfway between rage and sorrow. Another word would tip him one way or the other.

McRae nodded. "All right," he said, waving a hand in disgust, "have it your way."

Colgan turned sharply. "There is no other," he said.

McRae looked at Bolan as if to say the man's a lunatic, but Bolan gave him no sympathy. "Be back in a little while, Tom," he said, still staring at Bolan.

McRae started his engine and backed away from the other jeep, then gunned the engine and bounced onto the road. Bolan watched the jeep disappear without saying anything. Colgan seemed preoccupied, and Carlos tapped the wheel impatiently.

"Senor Colgan," Carlos said, gunning the engine sporadically, "we should go. If Senor McRae is right, we shouldn't be out here."

Colgan turned to look at the young driver, but he said nothing. He just stared as if he were looking right through the jeep, as if it weren't even there.

Bolan took Colgan by the shoulder, but the taller man spun wildly away. "Don't touch me. Don't ever touch me. I don't like it."

Bolan looked at Carlos, who just shrugged.

He didn't have to say anything. Bolan shook his head and walked toward the jeep. He climbed into the rear and clicked the safety off his M-16. The whole scene bothered him. Something wasn't right. He didn't know what, but couldn't shake the feeling he would soon find out.