for fishing. Witnesses tend to remember gross details only, such as shirt color or the presence of a hat, and elementary precautions like ours can save a lot of grief later.
We moved to the door. “Ready?” I asked.
“Right behind you, partner.”
I looked at him. He was grinning.
“Goddamnit,” I said, “we were the victims, remember? You need to look scared.”
“Man, I am scared!”
“Try to show it better,” I growled.
“Fuck, man, I’m telling you this is how I look when I’m scared!”
Our eyes locked for a moment. His grin didn’t budge.
I shook my head and said, “Here we go.”
I opened the door. The corridor was clear. No sign of Manny or the boy. Just outside the corridor, though, the mood among the dining crowd had clearly been disrupted. The people with good sense and experience with the sound of indoor gunfire were wisely heading down the escalators. The curious, the deniers, and the simply stupid were lined up and gawking. Fortheir benefit, I turned my head back toward the bathroom and shouted, “They’re shooting in there! Somebody call a guard!”
I heard Dox add, “I’m scared! I’m scared!”
An unhelpful thought flashed through my mind— My partner is insane —but I kept moving. My quick scan of the crowd hadn’t revealed my biggest concern—that individual or handful of individuals you will always encounter in a crisis who, sometimes by instinct but more often by experience, are not fleeing and not in denial, but instead calmly watching and evaluating, and perhaps looking for an opportunity to intervene. Ordinarily, these people simply make better than average witnesses later on, although sometimes they can access some deep-seated protective impulse and actually attack. I kept my head down and avoided anyone’s eyes, and we joined the crowds hurrying down the escalator. In my peripheral vision, I saw two white-shirted security guards heading up opposite us. Neither had drawn his gun; they weren’t sure what the trouble was and weren’t yet taking it fully seriously.
On the second floor, the crowd was less agitated but still distracted. People were looking around, trying to figure out what had happened, what was the disturbance, whether they needed to do anything or if they could just get back to their shopping.
We moved laterally, heading in the direction of the next set of down escalators. As we walked, we each automatically removed the hats, then, one at a time, pulled off and balled up our outer shirts, which were navy blue. Underneath we both wore a second shirt, in cream—typical Filipino attire.
“We need to split up,” I said. “Big white guy, Asian guy, that’s about as much as people are going to remember, but it’s enough to ID us right now.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Go straight to the airport. I’ll get the gear from the hotel. We’ll meet at the backup in Bangkok.”
“You saved my life back there, partner. You really did.”
“Bullshit.”
“That bodyguard would have drilled me clean if you hadn’t gotten to him first. I saw his eyes, and he meant business.”
I shook my head. There was no time to explain. And I still didn’t understand what had happened to me in there.
“Think those guys were Agency?” he asked. “They sure got there fast and they moved like pros.”
The agitation was behind us now; the next set of escalators, and the exits below, just a few meters away.
“That’s one of the things we need to find out,” I said. “But first we have to get out of Manila. I doubt Manny is going to report this to the authorities—it would mean too much attention for him. But I don’t want to stick around waiting to find out.”
We reached the escalators and paused for a moment.
“You go down here,” I said. “I want to lose the gun and the mag. I’ll drop them in a toilet tank in one of the bathrooms. With a little luck I can find some bleach or other cleaning supplies in a janitor’s cart and douse them first.”
He
We moved to the door. “Ready?” I asked.
“Right behind you, partner.”
I looked at him. He was grinning.
“Goddamnit,” I said, “we were the victims, remember? You need to look scared.”
“Man, I am scared!”
“Try to show it better,” I growled.
“Fuck, man, I’m telling you this is how I look when I’m scared!”
Our eyes locked for a moment. His grin didn’t budge.
I shook my head and said, “Here we go.”
I opened the door. The corridor was clear. No sign of Manny or the boy. Just outside the corridor, though, the mood among the dining crowd had clearly been disrupted. The people with good sense and experience with the sound of indoor gunfire were wisely heading down the escalators. The curious, the deniers, and the simply stupid were lined up and gawking. Fortheir benefit, I turned my head back toward the bathroom and shouted, “They’re shooting in there! Somebody call a guard!”
I heard Dox add, “I’m scared! I’m scared!”
An unhelpful thought flashed through my mind— My partner is insane —but I kept moving. My quick scan of the crowd hadn’t revealed my biggest concern—that individual or handful of individuals you will always encounter in a crisis who, sometimes by instinct but more often by experience, are not fleeing and not in denial, but instead calmly watching and evaluating, and perhaps looking for an opportunity to intervene. Ordinarily, these people simply make better than average witnesses later on, although sometimes they can access some deep-seated protective impulse and actually attack. I kept my head down and avoided anyone’s eyes, and we joined the crowds hurrying down the escalator. In my peripheral vision, I saw two white-shirted security guards heading up opposite us. Neither had drawn his gun; they weren’t sure what the trouble was and weren’t yet taking it fully seriously.
On the second floor, the crowd was less agitated but still distracted. People were looking around, trying to figure out what had happened, what was the disturbance, whether they needed to do anything or if they could just get back to their shopping.
We moved laterally, heading in the direction of the next set of down escalators. As we walked, we each automatically removed the hats, then, one at a time, pulled off and balled up our outer shirts, which were navy blue. Underneath we both wore a second shirt, in cream—typical Filipino attire.
“We need to split up,” I said. “Big white guy, Asian guy, that’s about as much as people are going to remember, but it’s enough to ID us right now.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Go straight to the airport. I’ll get the gear from the hotel. We’ll meet at the backup in Bangkok.”
“You saved my life back there, partner. You really did.”
“Bullshit.”
“That bodyguard would have drilled me clean if you hadn’t gotten to him first. I saw his eyes, and he meant business.”
I shook my head. There was no time to explain. And I still didn’t understand what had happened to me in there.
“Think those guys were Agency?” he asked. “They sure got there fast and they moved like pros.”
The agitation was behind us now; the next set of escalators, and the exits below, just a few meters away.
“That’s one of the things we need to find out,” I said. “But first we have to get out of Manila. I doubt Manny is going to report this to the authorities—it would mean too much attention for him. But I don’t want to stick around waiting to find out.”
We reached the escalators and paused for a moment.
“You go down here,” I said. “I want to lose the gun and the mag. I’ll drop them in a toilet tank in one of the bathrooms. With a little luck I can find some bleach or other cleaning supplies in a janitor’s cart and douse them first.”
He
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