Red Tide, стр. 31

The fishing village of Bagao was located down the coast from the town of Morong. And after a week at sea Greer was thrilled to see it. During his voyage the pilot had been able to overcome bouts of seasickness, learn some Tagalog, and make peace with the name “Hey-you!” As in “Hey-you, pull on that rope!” “Hey-you, empty the garbage can!” And, “Hey-you, throw up over the side.”

Now he was, in the words of the skipper, “As useful as a three-legged dog.” And that, according to a fisherman named Pedro, was a compliment.

There was no dock. Just rows of brightly painted Banca boats which had been beached. “It’s Sunday,” Pedro said. “They aren’t fishing today.”

The Saint Andrew was too large to beach, so a rusty anchor went over the side, as a sun-bleached RIB boat was lowered from the stern davits. Greer asked if he could go ashore and the skipper said, “Hell no. Not until Roberto says so.” Then he left.

It was hot. But a much-patched sail had been rigged to throw some shade onto the deck. And, when a bright blue rowboat came alongside, Pedro bought 2 six packs of ice-cold beer. Greer savored a bottle of San Miguel, and wondered if he could get it in the states.

Time passed. The hammock Greer was lying in swayed with the boat. His parents came to mind. Did mom and dad think he was dead? Of course, they did. But, if the plan worked, he’d call them from Indonesia. Or he’d email them … Or …

Greer heard a thump as another boat came alongside. That was followed by the sound of the skipper’s voice. “Hey you! Roberto’s here.”

Greer felt a rising sense of excitement as he stood and went to shake hands with the underground leader. “Damn, it’s good to see you Roberto.”

“And you,” Dalisay replied. “Are you ready to go ashore?”

“More than ready. Is the plan intact?”

“Yes,” Dalisay answered. “A local woman knows a prison guard. She can’t ask direct questions without revealing too much. But the man is quite loquacious. Especially when drunk. Which is most of the time. So, we know roughly how many guards there are, and which building the Americans are housed in.”

“What kind of condition are they in? That will make a big difference if a special ops team goes in to rescue them.”

“We don’t know,” Dalisay confessed. “That’s why we made arrangements for you to go in and talk to them.”

“You did what?”

“You heard me,” Dalisay said. “A South African journalist named Noel Zondi is scheduled to interview the American prisoners at 4:00 pm this afternoon. South Africa is neutral. And China wants to win hearts and minds there. That’s why my government is willing to let you visit the Bataan Provincial Detention Center, and write what they assume will be an anti-American story. I can’t accompany you. Photos of me are posted everywhere. But an agent named Mary will act as your guide and interpreter.”

“Is that her real name?”

Dalisay grinned. “No, of course not. Do you have any luggage? If so, get it. We’re leaving.”

All Greer had were the clothes on his back and the hard-sided briefcase full of guns. With that in hand he followed Dalisay to the gangplank and from there to the dock. Greer waved to Pedro and got a one fingered salute in return. So much for fond farewells.

The dock led to a well-trod path, which took them into a tin roofed fish market and the street beyond. A white taxi was waiting. Dalisay slid in beside the driver which left Greer to sit in back. A well-dressed woman was waiting there. She wrinkled her nose. “You stink.”

Greer’s sense of smell had been numbed by weeks of life on a fishing boat. “Sorry about that,” Greer said. “I’m looking forward to a shower and some clean clothes.”

“They’re waiting for you,” Dalisay assured him. “You must look like a journalist, and smell like one as well.”

The cab followed a turning-twisting path through the streets of Bagao to the far side of town and a little hotel with a big name. The “El Grande” was two stories tall and, judging from the number of windows out front, home to no more than a dozen rooms.

Dalisay didn’t pay prior to getting out which suggested that the driver was a member of the underground. A mangy dog was asleep on the front porch. Greer had to step over the animal in order to follow Mary inside. The lobby was delightfully cool. AC! Greer had damned near forgotten what it felt like.

The man behind the front desk kept his eyes focused on his cellphone as the threesome trooped past him, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and made their way to Room 003. Why bother with the zeros? Greer wondered, as Mary led them inside. “The bathroom is over there,” she said pointedly. “I hope the underwear fits. You’re a big man.”

Dalisay grinned. “I have to go. Mary will take over from here.”

“What about later on?” Greer wanted to know. “What about the plane?”

“It will be waiting,” Dalisay assured him. “As will I.”

Greer took the briefcase filled with guns into the bathroom and put the pistol within reach. The shower stall was small, and the water was tepid, but the pressure was good. Greer spent the better part of fifteen minutes lathering, rinsing, and toweling off.

The underwear Mary had promised was there still in its original packaging. Greer ripped the plastic open. The boxers were labeled XL but a bit too tight. Ditto the V-necked tee shirt. But they were clean, and Greer was happy to have them.

The pilot didn’t have a robe, which left him with no choice but to leave the bathroom in his underwear, gun in hand. Mary was sitting in the room’s only chair, hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes widened slightly as Greer appeared.

A shirt, tie, and suit were laid out on the bed. A highly polished pair of