Red Tide, стр. 18
***
Village of Bogo, northeast Luzon Island, the Philippines
The village of Bogo was located on the lower slopes of a mountain, with jungle all around, and serviced by a dirt road rife with potholes. The delivery van carrying Greer and his “shepherd” downhill rocked, rolled, and bounced as the driver veered from side-to-side in a vain attempt to avoid the deepest craters.
Greer was in disguise and carrying a doctored South African passport. The forgery consisted of a tiny photo of Greer glued over the picture of a man named Noel Zondi. Greer could feel the bump as he ran his thumb over the document.
When asked who Mr. Zondi was, and how the underground came to have his passport, Lita shrugged. “Who knows?”
Greer’s guide, or “shepherd,” was a teenager named Wally. That wasn’t his real name of course but, as Lita put it, “You can’t tell the interrogators what you don’t know.”
Another indication that seemed to suggest that Lita was far from optimistic about Greer’s chances. Wally was styling an Under Armour tee, patched jeans, and a pristine pair of Nike Air Force shoes. A pair of reflective sunglasses completed the look. He seemed like a good kid, but Greer wasn’t going to take that for granted.
It took the better part of a painful hour to reach a paved road that would, according to Wally, take them to the town of Kasa. “Kasa is located on the highway that connects west Luzon with east Luzon,” Wally explained. “We’ll spend the night there.”
“Then what?” Greer wanted to know. “Are we going to go west, or east?”
“West,” Wally replied. “The east side of Luzon is more developed. And the president’s security people have checkpoints on the highways. We’ll run into roadblocks to the west as well, but not as many.”
Greer was impressed by both the extent of the boy’s knowledge, and his ability to communicate. “You speak very well.”
Greer couldn’t see Wally’s eyes. They were hidden by the sunglasses. But Greer got the feeling that he had inadvertently touched a nerve. “My father lived in America for three years,” Wally replied. “And he was an English teacher.”
Greer took note of the past tense. “Did your father pass away?”
Wally’s voice was cold. “My father was murdered by the police.”
Greer was curious but didn’t want to pry. So, he took the statement at face value. “I’m sorry, Wally. I’m sure he’d be proud of you.”
The moment cell service became available Wally focused on whatever it was that Filipino kids were interested in. And that was scary. Would Wally post something dangerous? That seemed unlikely, given his father’s murder. Assuming the story was true.
You’re getting paranoid, Greer told himself. Keep it up! Paranoia is a survival trait.
After pursuing a winding path through the foothills, the van entered the town of Kasa, which existed to provide cross-island travelers with food, gas, and lodging. “Get ready,” Wally said. “We’ll get out in a minute. Then we’ll grab a taxi.”
“Why?”
“So the driver won’t know where we went,” the teenager replied.
Greer looked forward. If the driver was offended, he gave no sign of it. And, sure enough, the van pulled over to the curb a few seconds later. Greer was carrying a back pack that contained an extra set of underwear, some cheap toiletries, and a box of nine-mil for the pistol. The briefcase was ready in his right hand.
Wally waited for the van to disappear before crossing the street midblock and turning to hail a cab. It, like all cabs in the Philippines, was white. The interior stank of stale cigarette smoke, there was litter on the floor, and the radio was tuned to a talk show in one of the nation’s 120-plus languages. The best guess was Filipino, a standardized version of Tagalog which, along with English, was one of two official languages.
Wally gave instructions to the driver and they lurched into traffic. After a number of turns the car entered what was a mostly industrial area complete with machine shops, a junkyard, and a scattering of houses with tin roofs.
Wally ordered the car to the curb, paid the cabbie with pesos, and got out. Greer followed. “We’re going to stay in a safe house,” Wally said. “It’s about three blocks away. How’s the leg?”
“It’s okay so far,” Greer replied. “But don’t walk too fast.”
It was hot and Greer started to sweat after a block or so. Eventually Wally turned off the sidewalk and led Greer through the narrow passageway between two buildings and into the shade cast by a tall Bagoadlau tree.
The safe house was a simple affair with a metal roof, a covered porch, and gray siding. A dog came out to meet them and collect a pet from Wally. An elderly woman was sitting on the porch prepping vegetables and chewing betel nuts. She barely looked up as Wally walked past her and into the house.
“The bedroom belongs to Lola (Grandma). But we can use the cots,” Wally said. “Lola doesn’t talk much, but she’s an excellent cook. Wait until you taste her Adobo. The bathroom is out back.”
Greer was in need of a shower. With his shaving kit in hand the American went out through the back door to discover an open-air shower and a screened commode. The remains of a tumbledown factory backed up to the yard, which made for plenty of privacy.
The lukewarm shower felt wonderful. A shave followed. Dinner was waiting by the time Greer reentered the house. True to Wally’s prediction, the Adobo was a treat. The dish consisted of chicken cooked in vinegar, salt, garlic and pepper with a mound of white rice on the side. It was both delicious and filling. “Thank you, Lola,” Greer said, as he cleaned his plate. “That was a wonderful meal.”
“You’re welcome,” Lola replied. “All three of my husbands liked it.”
Greer laughed. “They were lucky men.”
“Yes,” Lola agreed. “They were.”
The couch that Greer wound