“He’ll want to go,” True agrees. “And Miles?” She cocks an eyebrow at him. “Are you going? Even if you can’t write about it?”
“Yes.” He started planning the trip even before Reynaldo Gabriel interceded on his behalf. He looked at flights and drafted a schedule, knowing that if he shows up in person he has a good chance of getting even an uncooperative subject to talk—and he desperately wants to talk to Ocampo. He wants to hear what the ex-priest can tell him about the American, because Miles needs to understand how a war hero like Shaw Walker came to order the murder of innocent, inconsequential men on that day in the TEZ, when Miles knelt in the grit and said nothing.
Miles will go on this trip alone if it comes to that. Working alone is nothing new for him; most of the reporting he’s done post-army was on his own. But the ordeal in the TEZ left him scarred, on edge. Scared. He prefers reliable company if he can get it—and ReqOps will have connections, and more options for security than he’ll have alone.
Still, he doesn’t want to deceive True or encourage false expectations. “You need to understand,” he tells her. “This is just a lead. Ocampo isn’t going to be able to tell you where Walker is. It says in the article that he never saw the American again.”
It’s Lincoln who answers. “We’ll find Walker on our own. That’s a matter of time. What we need from Ocampo is the backstory. He’ll know details of what happened at Nungsan. If he talked to Shaw, he might have learned what happened to turn our men into targets. The more we know about what Shaw went through, the better prepared we’ll be when we find him.”
Unknown Territory
Fuck with me again and the blade goes in.
Lincoln keeps these words in mind as he steps outside the secure customs area at Ninoy Aquino International Airport, with Miles, True, and Alex a couple of steps behind him. He scans the brightly lit terminal left to right; black and white in his gradient vision, blending into color. Alert but not afraid.
It’s early morning in Manila and the terminal is busy. Passengers from the Seattle flight, most with phones pressed to their ears, move toward the doors, eager to escape after the sixteen-hour flight. Progress is slow. They’re forced to weave through a barrier of tour guides, hotel drivers, and eager families. People begin to notice Lincoln. There are murmurs. Startled eyes fix on his scars. Frank gazes don’t turn away even when he meets them. He doesn’t let the attention rattle him. He stays aloof, on task, surveying the crowd for potential threats.
He’d like to be wearing a MARC visor, running apps to analyze the identity and intent of the faces around him, but the devices are unpopular and unwelcome here. So he relies on his own judgment and experience. He considers the distribution of individuals, their focus, their baggage. He looks past them to consider the traffic outside. None of it registers in his mind as a threat. All appears normal, acceptable.
So far.
“There’s Rey Gabriel,” Miles says.
Lincoln follows his gaze and sees a face, grown familiar during two video calls, moving toward them through the throng. “Got him.”
The leftist writer has spotted them as well. He raises a hand over his head, waving in greeting and calling out, “Welcome to Manila!” in a voice so unrestrained that people turn to look for the source of commotion.
Lincoln had hoped to keep a low profile, to not draw attention. Wishful thinking.
True’s disapproval takes the form of quiet sarcasm. “Hel-lo, world. Here we are.”
It’s been just three days since Miles proposed this trip. Even so, events haven’t moved fast enough to suit True. Lincoln is all too aware she’s been on edge, affected by a paranoid strain of worry that says another day, another hour, could bring on something unforeseen, and she might never get to meet Daniel Ocampo. Alex’s efforts to get her to de-escalate, to relax, just irritate her. It’s unbelievable to Lincoln that, after thirty-plus years of marriage, Alex still hasn’t figured out when to leave her the hell alone. Never, he reminds himself, travel with a married couple.
Miles takes the lead, extending his hand to Rey, who’s agreed to act as their guide and go-between with Daniel Ocampo. “Good to meet you, and thanks again for setting this up.”
Rey Gabriel is a slight, wiry man, wearing a dark-red button-front shirt, worn cargo pants, and battered sandals on his feet. His complexion is dark brown and he’s clean-shaven, but his thick black hair, down over his ears, could use a trim. There’s a cynical edge to his smile that warns Lincoln not to underestimate him.
“I spoke to our friend yesterday,” Rey assures them in excellent English delivered at enthusiastic speed. “He is expecting us but he was surprised you got here so soon. I told him it was a challenge to get everything ready in time, but of course you were eager”—he pauses to take a breath, getting dual use out of the moment by nodding at True—“this is about your son.”
“He was my oldest child,” True tells Rey in a soft, somber voice. “He was subjected to a horrific death and his memory was exploited for political ends all around the globe. So you will understand why it’s important to us to keep this visit discreet. No attention, no publicity. No photos. That was our agreement.”
Lincoln doesn’t miss the implicit threat in her voice. Rey hears it too. He responds with a quick and nervous smile, but his enthusiasm still bubbles through. “Yes, True. May I call you True? It’s hard for me to resist thinking of this as a story, I admit. I’m an investigative journalist down to my soul! And this—it will be like opening a letter written years ago and only now delivered.” He sighs wistfully. “But I promise discretion. No worries. I will abide by our agreement.”
An agreement for which Rey is being well paid.
Having made her point, True smiles, putting Rey at ease. “Thank you so much for understanding.”
It’s already day’s end at home—the end of yesterday, Lincoln reminds himself. He is stiff from the long flight and still feels a lingering lethargy, but with the help of drugs and soothing white noise he was able to front-load on sleep. They all were.
The plan is to make the long drive to Daniel Ocampo’s home, arriving in the afternoon, and when the interview is done, return to the city, where they’ll catch a few hours of sleep at a hotel before flying home in the morning.
As they follow Rey’s lead to the parking structure, Lincoln monitors their surroundings. He notes security cameras and looks for phones and for video eyewear that might be turned in their direction, but sees nothing that makes him suspicious.
The parking structure is packed with mostly new cars, reflecting a growing business class. Rey brings them to a black midsize SUV so clean and shining it looks like it just left a dealer’s lot.
“I borrowed it!” he exclaims, his voice echoing faintly against the concrete. “We will trade it for another when we are partway there. You are concerned about security. So is our friend. He’s worked hard on behalf of the common man, and he’s suffered for it. Now he is cautious. He does not want strangers coming uninvited, asking questions. So I am making it harder to follow us.” With a cynical wink, he adds, “Maybe!”
“We’d like to monitor that,” True says. She gets a hemispherical camera pod from her daypack. “It’s a traffic cam,” she tells Rey, and as he watches wide-eyed, she secures it with a suction mount to the roof above the lift gate.
“That’s going to tell if someone is following us?” he asks.
“That’s what it does,” Lincoln assures him. He checks his tablet, confirming a connection. “An app assesses the video feed for suspicious vehicles.”