“What five million?” Georgia Blue asked.
There was a long silence. Finally, Jordan grinned broadly. Jack Cray only smiled and said, “Then there’s no need to mention it again, is there?”
“None,” she said. “Can we get on with the rest of it?”
Both men nodded.
“First, Otherguy Overby. I think he’s running his own private shitty.”
“Sounds like Otherguy,” Jordan said.
She nodded her agreement and said, “But we can leave him to Durant.”
“Okay,” Jordan said. “We leave him to Durant. Who do we leave Durant and Artie to?”
“I want to read you something,” she said, reached into her shoulder bag and brought out a sheet of paper. “Listen to this: ‘Expense advance in the amount of fifty thousand dollars drawn against miscellaneous gratuities and incidental expenses.’ Signed by A. C. Wu and Quincy Durant.”
Jack Cray’s lips formed a line of disapproval. “Whose fifty was it?”
“I had almost two hundred thousand in operational funds in an attaché case locked in the hotel safe. They conned the manager out of the case, lifted fifty and left me their IOU.” She put the receipt back in her purse.
“They’re going to fuck everybody over, aren’t they?” Jordan said. “You, Otherguy — even Stallings.” He smiled. “I like it.”
“I thought you might,” she said.
“What’s the fifty thousand going for?” Cray asked.
“I’m not sure, but I think most of it’ll be spent by tomorrow when Booth Stallings brings Espiritu down from the hills.”
She leaned back to gauge their surprise. But there was none. Jack Cray reached into his pocket, brought out a much-folded sheet of stationery, unfolded it and flattened it in front of Georgia Blue.
She glanced at the map and up at Cray. “So you already knew about Stallings bringing Espiritu down?”
Cray nodded.
“Artie was up in Boy’s room when we got there,” Weaver Jordan said. “He could’ve been there five minutes or fifteen. I toss the room and what do I find? Boy’s wallet. So guess what’s in it?” He tapped the map in front of Georgia Blue. “This. Now what worries me is how come Artie didn’t find it first?”
Georgia Blue studied the map for a moment. “He did,” she said and looked at Jack Cray. “Got a pen?”
He handed her a silver ballpoint pen. She used it to alter the rough map. When done, she handed the pen back to Cray and turned the map around so both men could examine it.
“Now your map is just like Artie’s.”
Weaver Jordan studied it with interest. “So when Espiritu comes down from the hills to point B here,” he said, jabbing his finger at a point on the map, “Wu and Durant’ll just be in the way, right?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And Otherguy?”
“Him too.”
Weaver Jordan nodded contentedly. Jack Cray pulled the map over for closer inspection. Still looking at it, he said, “What about Booth Stallings?”
Georgia Blue hesitated. “What d’you think?”
Weaver Jordan smiled his small tight smile. “You’re calling it, sugar.”
This time her hesitation lasted scarcely a second. “Stallings is a keeper.”
Chapter Thirty-four
The nearly empty warehouse was down on the Cebu docks near Pier Two. Painted on its outside walls in huge letters was the name of the Chinese-owned department store on Colon Street. Inside, Wu and Durant watched as the old man with the silky white hair and the rust-red face inspected his two dozen mercenaries, not much caring for what he saw. The time was 10:17 P.M.
The mercenaries, none of them over 22 or 23, were lined up in two wavering rows of 12 each. Most were armed with M-16s, but a few carried shotguns. Some had regulation canteens and the rest had plastic bottles suspended from their necks by cords. Spare shotgun shells and ammunition clips were jammed into the pockets of pants that were either dark brown or black. All wore very dark green T-shirts, compliments of the old Chinese merchant who had sent somebody out to buy them from a rival store.
Vaughn Crouch made his inspection, looking very much the competent, if somewhat superannuated, mercenary in his short-sleeved bush jacket and dark blue gimme cap. He also wore a webbing belt that supported two canteens and a .45 Colt automatic pistol — or semiautomatic, as he insisted on calling it.
Prior to the inspection Crouch had addressed the mercenaries for five minutes in a mixture of English and Cebuano. When finished he had asked for questions. There had been only one from a very thin man who asked if there would be anything to eat. Crouch replied that there would be plenty.
The inspection over, Crouch told the mercenaries to climb into the two large Toyota vans parked nearby. As they moved to the vans he walked over to Wu and Durant, pausing to pick up a small plastic shopping bag.
Crouch handed the shopping bag to Durant. “Two Smith & Wesson five-shot belly guns,” he said. “Also ten extra rounds. If you guys find you need any more’n that, I suggest you take out a white handkerchief and wave it around.”
“Sounds sensible,” Durant said.
Artie Wu nodded toward the mercenaries. “What d’you think?”
Crouch shrugged. “Average. By the time I get through walking ‘em all night, they’ll be dog meat.” He turned to give the young men a glum look. “I guess I’ll let ’em sleep in shifts tomorrow once we get to point B.” He turned back to examine Wu carefully, then Durant. “You gents still planning to put in an appearance tomorrow evening?”
“We’ll be there,” Artie Wu said.
“Yeah, I guess you will at that,” Crouch said and turned to go, but again turned back. “What do you think of those Hondas?” he asked Durant.
Durant smiled. “Nice car. But what happened to Swarthmore?”
“If that granddaughter of mine wants to go to college, let her borrow from the government like everybody else.”
After they returned to the Magellan Hotel, Wu called Otherguy Overby’s room from a house phone in the lobby. When there was no answer he and Durant crossed to the reception desk where Wu asked the room clerk if he had seen Overby.
The room clerk’s eyebrows shot up and down twice in the Cebu salute, this time signaling surprise mingled with apprehension. “Mr. Overby checked out.”
“When?” Durant said.
“An hour ago. He said we should put his bill on Mr. Wu’s.” The clerk looked up at Wu, expecting the worst. “Have I made a mistake, sir?”
“No, that’s fine,” Wu said and gave the counter a reassuring slap with his palm. “It’s just that we didn’t expect him to check out so soon.” Forcing an all’s well smile, Wu asked, “What about Miss Blue? Has she checked out yet?”
“No, sir. She came in a few minutes ago and went up to her room.” The clerk smiled. “She seems to be feeling much better.”
“That’s splendid,” Artie Wu said, started to turn away, but seemed to remember something. “I wonder if I could have Mr. Overby’s bill?”
“Yes, sir,” the clerk said.
Up in Durant’s room, the only item of interest on Otherguy Overby’s hotel bill was the final charge, which was a long-distance phone call made at 9:14 P.M. to a 202 area code number in the United States. Wu looked at Durant. “Two-oh-two’s Washington, right?”
Durant nodded, picked up the phone and placed an international call to (202) 634-5100. While they waited for it to be completed, Durant mixed two drinks of Scotch whiskey and tap water. Artie Wu took a sip of his and asked, “What time is it in Washington?”
Durant looked at his watch. “It’s about eleven-thirty here so there it’d be about ten-thirty yesterday morning.”
They waited in silence until the telephone rang 15 minutes later and the Manila operator told Durant his call was going through. Durant held the phone away from his ear so Wu could listen to it ring. It rang three times before a man’s voice answered with, “Good morning, Secret Service.”