Durant’s long face went still. Nothing moved. Not the green-gray eyes or the wide mouth that always stayed turned up at its ends. Artie Wu watched him in the mirror, trying to detect some reaction. It was no use looking for a flush because Durant wore one of those hot country tans that takes years to acquire and never seems to fade, not even in cold climates.
Durant at last unlocked his hands from behind his head and rose slowly. He stood an inch taller than Artie Wu but weighed at least 60 pounds less. At first glance most found him skinny until they realized their mistake and tried slim. When that didn’t quite work either they resorted to lean and left it at that because they couldn’t think of anything else.
In addition to his permanent tan Durant wore a pair of chino pants and a V-neck navy blue cotton sweater but no shirt. On his feet were a pair of expensive but sockless tasseled loafers that hadn’t been shined in a while — if ever. He walked over to the mirror and stared at Artie Wu’s reflection. “I don’t work with that Aussie git,” Durant said, using an offhand tone that Wu long ago had learned to interpret as adamant.
“Okay,” Wu said. “Forget it.”
There was a brief silence while they stared at each other in the mirror. Finally, Durant asked, “What’s Boy got?”
“I don’t know. He might be just the post office.”
“With a hell of a lot of postage due — as always.”
“So?”
“So we don’t have much choice, do we?”
“None at all,” said Artie Wu.
Emily Cariaga, reared by a great-grandmother in Manila who had insisted on speaking only Spanish to her great-granddaughter until the child was six, studied the ridged network of 36 pale scars that crisscrossed Durant’s back. He sat naked on the edge of the bed, smoking a breakfast cigarette. She reached over and ran a gentle forefinger along the longest scar. Durant shivered.
“What time is it?” she asked.
Durant looked at his stainless-steel watch on the bedside table and then slipped it onto his wrist. “Five past five.”
“At dinner last night Artie seemed so — well, I would say pensive, except I’m talking about Artie.”
“Artie’s broke,” Durant said. “When he’s broke, he thinks a lot.”
“You should’ve asked me about Ernie.”
“Probably.”
“I’ve known him all my life.”
Durant put his cigarette out in the ashtray. “And?”
“And Ernesto Arguello Bello Pineda was always a perfectly charming bastard. Utterly untrustworthy.”
Durant turned around to look at her as she lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, her small breasts bare, the rest of her covered by the sheet. “He checked out okay,” Durant said.
“With whom?” she said. “You and Artie talked to the wrong set. You talked to those who hoped to get a few crumbs from Ernie’s table. You should’ve talked to the ones who own the table.”
Durant smiled. “Your set.”
“My set.”
He shrugged. “It’s finished.”
“Whatever did you pay him all that money for?”
“To grease the skids; cross a few palms. The deal was a casualty reinsurance pool.”
“To insure insurers, right?”
“Right. Poor old Ernie claimed he knew people who’d cut us in for a twenty percent share of the pool. For their kindness, they’d be rewarded with two hundred thousand U.S., all cash. Ernie’d get one hundred thousand for all his hard work. Once we had it signed and sealed, Artie and I knew some money guys in London we could’ve laid our twenty percent off on. We were figuring on doubling our money or better.”
Emily Cariaga smiled. “Little lambs.” She ran a forefinger down the inside of Durant’s forearm. Again he shivered. “Didn’t anyone ever warn you against well-spoken strangers?”
“That’s what was really bothering Artie last night,” he said. “You see, until we bumped into Ernesto Pineda, Artie and I were always the well-spoken strangers.”
“Poor you.”
Durant nodded his agreement. “Poor is right.”
“You need money?”
He smiled, leaned over and kissed her. “That’s sweet of you. But no. Not yet anyway.”
“Let me know.”
Durant nodded and rose. “I’d better get dressed.”
She propped herself up on one elbow and stared at him. Spanish blood had bequeathed her a nicely boned chin and a straight thin nose that was large by Filipino standards. Above the well-shaped chin was a wide and perhaps overly generous mouth that grinned more often than it smiled. Best of all, Durant thought, were her eyes — enormous black ones that looked solemn until the grin came and they narrowed themselves into mischievous, faintly mocking arcs. With skin almost as dark as Durant’s dark tan, she stood five-three, except her posture was so perfect it seemed to add a couple of inches. With heels, she could pass for five-seven, even five-eight.
“Do you really want to find out what happened to Ernie and your money?” Emily Cariaga asked.
Durant didn’t reply for several seconds. “I really don’t give much of a damn about Ernie, but I was rather fond of the money.”
“Then I’ll ride down to Manila with you and Artie. Talk to a few people. It shouldn’t take me long to learn something.”
Durant nodded. “Okay. Fine.”
“When’s Artie coming by?”
“Six.”
“And it’s what now?”
Durant looked at his watch. “Five-fifteen.”
She patted the bed. “Then we just have time, don’t we?”
“Yes, I think we do,” Durant said as he slipped back into bed.
Durant said he’d already seen the great stone head of Ferdinand Marcos more times than he really needed to, so Artie Wu took the traditional Kennon Road back down through the mountains to the highway that ran south to Manila. The narrow two-lane Kennon Road twisted, curved and turned back upon itself. Traffic was light that early in the morning and Wu drove expertly, if too fast, making prodigal use of his horn on the curves.
Because riding in the back seat made her carsick, Emily Cariaga sat in front with Wu. Durant sat braced in the back. Whenever a curve came up he closed his eyes. Artie Wu’s driving was one of the few things that absolutely terrified Durant.
The old Jeepney formed the roadblock. Positioned across the narrow road, the Jeepney’s red and yellow paint was faded and peeling, but it still boasted two small chromed rearing horses on its hood. The hood and its radiator were all that still resembled the surplus Army jeeps after which it had been named.
They had parked it exactly right. When Wu came speeding around the curve he had just time enough to slam on the brakes. The Mercedes skidded to a stop a foot away from the Jeepney. In the rear seat Durant said, “Shit.”
They came out from behind the Jeepney then. There were five of them — four men and a woman, all in their twenties. Durant thought most of them were under 25 — at most, a year or two older. The woman seemed to be in charge.
The five wore what Durant had come to think of as standard international guerrilla gear: jeans, the inevitable jogging shoes, some kind of fatigue jacket with camouflage markings or, lacking the jacket, a dark T-shirt. Two of the men also wore Timex gimme caps.
The two with the caps and the M-16s took the right side of the Mercedes. The other two men, armed with sawed-off repeating shotguns, took the left side. The woman wore dark aviator glasses and carried a .38 semiautomatic down at her side. She walked slowly up to the driver’s door and stared through the dark glasses at Artie Wu who, after a moment’s hesitation, rolled down the window.
“Hi, there,” Artie Wu said with his friendliest smile.
“American?” she said.