in. You'll go out as soon as we get the word to launch the operation."
Brannigan glanced at Dawkins. "Senior Chief, take over the detachment." "Aye, sir!"
Chapter 4.
MANILA, THE PHILIPPINES
16 SEPTEMBER
2200 HOURS LOCAL
THE seedy little waterfront bar had a name as did all such establishments, but in this case only the neighborhood inebriates knew it. The hand-painted plank that once identified the shabby establishment had blown off during the typhoon of 1998 and had not been replaced. The dinginess of the interior displayed even more careless attention to maintenance and housekeeping. A pair of handles to a broken beer tap remained mounted on the bar after becoming dysfunctional years earlier, the mirror on the wall to the rear was cracked and dirty, while an out-of-date pornographic calendar near the front door showed the faded likeness of a naked blonde lying back in a love seat with her legs invitingly spread open. A decade or so before, a Portuguese merchant seaman who fancied himself quite the artist had drawn a crude phallus entering the model's body.
Abduruddin Suhanto, chief operating officer of the Greater Sunda Shipping Line, sat at a corner table, nursing a cheap gin drink that had been served him in a dusty glass. He patiently awaited the arrival of an old antagonist who had intercepted dozens of his narcotics voyages over long years of smuggling. This bribable, focused opportunist was Commander Carlos Batanza of the Philippine Navy.
The barmaid, a faded corpulent veteran of a long-ago career spent entertaining sailors in dockside cribs, walked over to the table with another serving of gin. She brought a clean glass since Suhanto had tipped her a peso for the first drink. She scooped up some change from the table, including another tip, and went back to the bar, sitting down on a corner stool where she maintained watch over the drinkers. Two patrons, intoxicated almost to a state of unawareness, sat silently at the bar, staring down at their drinks. Another man was passed out under a table, lying in vomit and urine.
The barmaid's attention was diverted by the entrance of a short, muscular Filipino man who looked like a plainclothes policeman in his white suite and tie. He paused for a moment, surveying the interior. He spotted Suhanto and walked past the woman to join him at the table. The man smiled and nodded as he sat down. "Hello, my friend."
"Hello," Suhanto said.
The man, Commander Carlos Batanza, turned toward the bar. "A double shot of scotch," he ordered from the barman. "And don't shove any of that watered-down shit at me."
The drink was poured from a special bottle reserved for cops and other people who could make trouble for the bar owner. The woman brought the libation over and left abruptly after the delivery, knowing better than to expect any payment, much less a gratuity, from the customer.
Batanza tasted the drink, smacked his lips, and turned a heavy-lidded glare on Suhanto. "I am here. What is it you have to offer me?"
"I have come into a situation that has a great potential of producing much money for the two of us," Suhanto said softly. "I am speaking of a chance to become permanently wealthy. This is the sort of monetary reward that provides big investments, mansions, and villas in Europe."
"Really? I take it you mean more money than to simply buy an expensive car."
"Naturally, Commander. I have ventured into another area of surreptitious dealings. Arms." He was pleased to note that Batanza's eyes had opened wider. "Of course it all depends on how well--or bad--things go."
"Then what must I do for us to get our hands on this fortune you speak of?"
"You have the means to make deals in weapons sales, do you not?"
"I have certain contacts," Batanza replied. "But this is a very tricky state of affairs. Particularly if the weaponry has been stolen from government sources."
'These most definitely have not," Suhanto stated confidently, though he really hadn't the slightest idea
Brannigan glanced at Dawkins. "Senior Chief, take over the detachment." "Aye, sir!"
Chapter 4.
MANILA, THE PHILIPPINES
16 SEPTEMBER
2200 HOURS LOCAL
THE seedy little waterfront bar had a name as did all such establishments, but in this case only the neighborhood inebriates knew it. The hand-painted plank that once identified the shabby establishment had blown off during the typhoon of 1998 and had not been replaced. The dinginess of the interior displayed even more careless attention to maintenance and housekeeping. A pair of handles to a broken beer tap remained mounted on the bar after becoming dysfunctional years earlier, the mirror on the wall to the rear was cracked and dirty, while an out-of-date pornographic calendar near the front door showed the faded likeness of a naked blonde lying back in a love seat with her legs invitingly spread open. A decade or so before, a Portuguese merchant seaman who fancied himself quite the artist had drawn a crude phallus entering the model's body.
Abduruddin Suhanto, chief operating officer of the Greater Sunda Shipping Line, sat at a corner table, nursing a cheap gin drink that had been served him in a dusty glass. He patiently awaited the arrival of an old antagonist who had intercepted dozens of his narcotics voyages over long years of smuggling. This bribable, focused opportunist was Commander Carlos Batanza of the Philippine Navy.
The barmaid, a faded corpulent veteran of a long-ago career spent entertaining sailors in dockside cribs, walked over to the table with another serving of gin. She brought a clean glass since Suhanto had tipped her a peso for the first drink. She scooped up some change from the table, including another tip, and went back to the bar, sitting down on a corner stool where she maintained watch over the drinkers. Two patrons, intoxicated almost to a state of unawareness, sat silently at the bar, staring down at their drinks. Another man was passed out under a table, lying in vomit and urine.
The barmaid's attention was diverted by the entrance of a short, muscular Filipino man who looked like a plainclothes policeman in his white suite and tie. He paused for a moment, surveying the interior. He spotted Suhanto and walked past the woman to join him at the table. The man smiled and nodded as he sat down. "Hello, my friend."
"Hello," Suhanto said.
The man, Commander Carlos Batanza, turned toward the bar. "A double shot of scotch," he ordered from the barman. "And don't shove any of that watered-down shit at me."
The drink was poured from a special bottle reserved for cops and other people who could make trouble for the bar owner. The woman brought the libation over and left abruptly after the delivery, knowing better than to expect any payment, much less a gratuity, from the customer.
Batanza tasted the drink, smacked his lips, and turned a heavy-lidded glare on Suhanto. "I am here. What is it you have to offer me?"
"I have come into a situation that has a great potential of producing much money for the two of us," Suhanto said softly. "I am speaking of a chance to become permanently wealthy. This is the sort of monetary reward that provides big investments, mansions, and villas in Europe."
"Really? I take it you mean more money than to simply buy an expensive car."
"Naturally, Commander. I have ventured into another area of surreptitious dealings. Arms." He was pleased to note that Batanza's eyes had opened wider. "Of course it all depends on how well--or bad--things go."
"Then what must I do for us to get our hands on this fortune you speak of?"
"You have the means to make deals in weapons sales, do you not?"
"I have certain contacts," Batanza replied. "But this is a very tricky state of affairs. Particularly if the weaponry has been stolen from government sources."
'These most definitely have not," Suhanto stated confidently, though he really hadn't the slightest idea
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