The Trafficked

49

Mann and Becky sat in the old four-seater Cessna 172 and watched Puerto Galera come into view. In the distance they saw a faded purple banner draped lopsided across the roof of the small airport terminal. Becky had been very quiet all through the journey, and when Mann checked on her she looked ashen.

‘Thank you, Remy. The lift is much appreciated.’ Mann was sitting in the co-pilot seat.

Remy looked more Mexican than Filipino. His luxurious thick black hair, lightly dressed with coconut oil, sat on his head in waves of black. He also had an impressive handlebar moustache ‘No problem. I have to see my wife’s cousin who lives here. I am always happy to help the Fathers; they do a great job. I was a priest myself, you know. Got caught up wid a woman-same old story, huh? Ha Ha…’

He started singing the words to ‘Come fly with me’.

Remy Bulgaros was doing his favourite thing-singing Sinatra songs and flying his planes. They were in safe hands; Remy knew how to fly almost any small plane there was. This was one of two he owned. The other was used for crop spraying and extinguishing the odd small fire. He lined up the plane with the runway and put the flaps down.

‘Don’t worry if it’s a bit bumpy, huh? It’s a good wind today, great for the beach, not so good for small planes.’

Mann glanced behind and saw that Becky’s knuckles were white as she clutched the seat belt. Her head stayed absolutely still whilst her eyes flicked side to side as the tops of trees came into view. He heard her sigh with relief as they touched down and taxied off to the hard standing area. Remy parked up and switched off the engine.

‘I will be ready to fly you to Angeles whenever you want. Just call me on my cell phone. You have the number, no? You can get a phut phut from here to the resort. Ask anyone inside. Okay? Juz call.’ Remy burst into song again.

Mann and Becky stepped out. Before they’d gone ten paces from the aircraft they were surrounded by a dozen men all gesticulating and grinning, all wanting to carry their bags.

‘It’s not heavy,’ Becky told them.

‘It doesn’t matter-it’s their job,’ Mann said, smiling as he handed them over. ‘There’s not enough work to go round so they invent jobs-keeps them in food for the day.’

At the airport door the bags were passed on to another set of men whose job it was to carry it another twenty metres to a line of phut phuts which were bigger versions of mosquitoes with more roof space and larger luggage baskets at the back. Some of the phut phuts were already loaded with children on the roofs as well as on every available space on the bike itself. Sometimes up to six managed to sit with the driver, clinging around each other’s waists. The phut phut drivers sized Mann and Becky up and the biggest trike driver stepped forward, chosen to balance the load. He offered to take them to their resort, and put their bags into the seat at the back of the bike whilst they squeezed into the sidecar.

The road ran down narrow lanes, past scooters and tricycles with loaded side cars. A long, narrow road was flanked on both sides with stalls, workshops, the odd house and small hotel. It was all lush and green with forest in every gap between the houses and as far into the island as could be seen. The twenty-minute trike ride came to an end when the road ended and the beach began. There were several porters waiting. Mann recognised the man with the Paradise Hotel shirt logo.

‘Welcome, Mr and Mrs Black. I will take you to the resort.’

BONG was written on a name badge and pinned to a blue and cream floral shirt, which made up his uniform along with ivory-coloured shorts and flip-flops. He took both their cases from them and marched in front to a waiting barca-a boat that looked like a large insect sitting on the water. The boat had Paradise written on the side. They loaded Mann and Becky onboard and set off.

‘I can’t believe we’ve got our own boat. What a place!’ Becky sat back and smiled. It was impossible not to. Under the shade of the canvas roof she looked out across the water to the island that lay some way off.

‘It’s a tropical paradise-swaying palms and white beaches-such a contrast to the city slums. So, this place we are going to, it’s not for your average sex tourist?’

‘Some areas are made for sex tourism; others are purely for the divers and the families. It’s a great resort-spread out, covering several beaches. We are going to Sabang, which is not the prettiest place-lively and trashy; not really for families but we need to look up a couple of people-two men on the list of prominent westerners working the system out here. The good places, unspoilt, are not far from where we are staying-just a twenty-minute walk away is La Laguna-some of the best diving in the Philippines. Some of it is so unspoilt it’s breathtakingly beautiful. But can’t see us getting to see it, sorry. This is a one-night stop-over. It would be nice for you to come back and see this place properly one day,’ Mann said.

‘Definitely.’ Then she thought about it. ‘Don’t think Alex would get it, though. He’d be irritated by the slow pace. He just doesn’t do “lying around on beaches” stuff. For him it’s all action and decisions.’ She closed her eyes and settled back against the wooden seat. ‘But I love it-it’s stunning-like a postcard: white sands, tall, swaying palms.’

‘What’s Alex up to whilst you’re away?’ ‘This and that. He’s fine. Says he’s busy making money. He didn’t seem to mind.’ She opened her eyes, looked at Mann and looked away quickly. His expression said it all. ‘All right, Detective-he said it was the same old bullshit. Work always comes first. And maybe he’s right.’ She dipped her hand in the water and watched the wake. ‘I am not really trophy wife enough for him. Nothing I do is right. My hair is too short, my hips too broad. My bloody eyes are probably the wrong colour. I can’t do anything right any more. Maybe I never could.’ She sat up and smiled sadly as she looked out to the turquoise water. ‘I can’t get over how beautiful it is here.’

‘Nature’s an awesome thing. I have the utmost respect for her. She can give you life and she can snuff life out in a second.’

Becky opened her eyes a tad. ‘Like triads, you mean?’

‘Yes. I guess so.’ He looked quizzically back at her. ‘But, if you have certain values, believe in certain things, then they are worth dying for.’

‘That really is you, isn’t it, Mann?’ She sat up. ‘You are willing to give up your life for others-people that don’t even exist in other’s heads, nameless victims-you will die for them. Why?’

‘Because I understand what it’s like to be helpless-to be vulnerable.’

‘What about personal happiness, Mann? What about you finding contentment in your life?’

‘I get my happiness where I can. A lasting love is not for everyone.’

‘Alex told me that when he first saw me he knew I was the one.’ She stared out at the glistening sunlight on the water. ‘Not sure I believe in that kind of thing either, really.’

‘Are you faithful?’

‘Of course.’ She was flustered, almost insulted by the question. ‘When I spoke my wedding vows, I meant them. Till death do us part, all that stuff. I am not a quitter, Mann.’

‘What about him? Is he faithful to you?’

There was a pause. ‘Truthfully? I don’t know. I hope so, but I am not sure. There have been times when he’s come back from a business trip and he’s been different.’

‘In what way?’

She became flustered.

‘Well, in bed for a start. He’s made love differently. Almost as if he was making love to someone else. But everyone wants to be with someone-no one wants to be alone. Except for you, it seems. Have you never fallen so hopelessly in love that you would have cut your arm off for her?’

‘Never wanted that kind of love. I don’t want love that you can’t control. My father’s death, Helen’s, it’s not worth loving someone at any cost. I would far rather never love than feel that loss again. And anyway, I don’t believe in love at first sight. I’ve had plenty of other feelings at first sight. So far none of them were love. Maybe I’m not romantic enough.’

‘Huh! I bet you are, really. You notice things.’

He looked at her. In the sunlight her face was honey-coloured and her cheeks were pink from the sun. ‘So you don’t think you are ever going to find love again because you don’t want to. What happens if it just happens?’

‘Things don’t just happen-you have to let them happen.’

‘You blame yourself for Helen’s and your dad’s deaths, don’t you? You must have loved your father very much.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes and stared out at the ocean and the looming shoreline. As Mann stared out into the water, the blue filled his eyes and senses; the fresh sea spray cleared his head and he realised something he had never admitted to before. The thought jumped out at him and it shocked him. He turned back to Becky and looked at her concerned face as she waited for an answer; he knew she had unlocked another piece of the puzzle for him.

‘I never really knew my father-I never got the chance.’

A jolt interrupted them and a commotion ensued as half a dozen men waded in to pull the barca up onto the sand and moor it alongside a dozen others. Becky reached into her pocket and handed the man a note in exchange for her bag. He held it up in triumph for the others to see. His workmates slapped him on the back and congratulated him.

‘What was all that about?’ Becky looked confused.

‘The rounds are on him tonight. You gave him the equivalent of a month’s wages.’

There was a jostle amongst the porters as to who would get to carry Becky’s bag up the beach. She left it to them to sort it out and followed Mann. Bong hurried off to make sure all was in order, whilst Mann and Becky walked along the beach. It was a narrow strip of sand that was already congested with moored barcas, small hotels and bars that crept almost as far as the water’s edge. There were a few couples sunbathing, and a few more sitting in the shade of beach umbrellas. Excited children were kicking up water at the ocean’s edge.

They headed up the beach towards one of the beachfront bars, which were built on stilts resting half onto the beach. A few tables and chairs were pitched into the sand. Laid-back beach music drifted out from inside the elevated bar area. Becky caught up with the porter and took her bag from him. She dug in her pocket and, not wishing to appear mean, produced the same note as last time. It caused great whoops of triumph from the porters. Becky plonked herself on the stool in the sand. They were immediately surrounded by men wanting to sell them diving adventures and sailing trips.

The barman left his seat, on the steps of the bar, and sauntered over to their table to take their order. The touting locals moved on and up the beach.

‘Two San Miguel.’ Mann ordered their drinks.

‘Yes, sir.’ He came back with the tray. ‘You staying at Paradise Hotel, sir?’

‘Do you know somewhere better?’ answered Mann.

‘I know d best place in Sabang.’ He grinned and pointed to the second floor rising above them. Washing and wetsuits hung down from the balcony above and the sound of heavy-duty bass came thumping out from the open balcony. ‘We have rooms above d bar.’

‘Yeah, right, now tell us somewhere where we can actually get some sleep.’

‘Okay. Okay. I see you want d best for such a beautiful lady.’ He grinned at Becky. ‘Paradise Hotel-it’s real nice, at d end of d beach, quiet, own by English guy, name Bob. It is good place for you.’

‘Tell you what…we’ll see how it works out. If it’s bad we’ll come back to you. Okay?’

‘Is that one of the men you were talking about?’ Becky asked after the waiter had left.

‘Yes. English Bob, or Bob English, is an expat wanted for armed robbery and firearms offences back in the UK and in Thailand. He has twice managed to avoid prison for underage sex. He isn’t fussy-girls or boys.’

‘Nice bloke. He gets away with it here by paying people off?’

‘That’s it. He pays off the police, the parents and the politicians, and he sends the child back to the country side, lost forever. Bob has been here five years. Seems to have found himself some useful friends, one of whom owns a few of the bars along this beach. It’s probably a good place for us to start asking questions.’

The waiter came back. ‘Your man, Bong, is coming back in five minutes-just making the room ready. You want another beer?’ He pointed to Mann’s empty bottle. Mann declined.

‘What else do you know about this English Bob?’ asked Becky when the waiter had left them and was working his way across the sand and up the wooden steps to the bar beyond.

‘He owns a few clubs here. He is bound to have been approached by the White Circle, and I know he has had dealings with Stevie Ho…Here’s our man, and…’ Bong appeared to inform them that all was prepared for their arrival. They followed him along the beach as he carried one bag on each of his broad shoulders. He was in no hurry at first, but he sprinted the last bit as the hot sand got too much to bear. They arrived at the beach entrance to Hotel Paradise, whose boundary was marked by posts and three rows of sturdy-looking sun-loungers, set out in pairs, with thatched sun umbrellas between each set. There was a sentry post, a small windowless box, and a smartly uniformed officer grinned and waved at them from inside, his rifle over his arm.

‘Why is he armed?’ Becky smiled and waved back. ‘I can understand the airport security, but why here?’

‘They have had problems with terrorists for so many years. They are used to a high level of security. They have a “better safe than sorry” approach.’

Two women met them at the boundary of sunbeds and presented them with their welcome pack-shell necklaces and fresh papaya juice. They had garlands of flowers placed around their necks and were ushered towards reception.

The reception area was being swept, the sand was being brushed out; it was a continual process. There were three girls behind the desk dressed in tightly fitting flowery uniforms, their hair tied up, glossy and black, caught at the back of their heads with a flower. They were flustered and giggly at Mann’s presence. Becky realised it was a fact of life that he was the average Filipina’s winning lottery ticket.

‘Hello sir, ma’am,’ they chorused. ‘The manager, Mr Bob English, apologises but he has had to go into town for business. He will be back later. He asks you please to have a drink with him this evening.’

‘Please tell the manager we would be delighted.’ Mann smiled at the girls.

Bong escorted them up to their suite on the second floor.

It was a nicely laid-out complex that sprawled back from the beach for an acre. Its main building stretched up for three floors of balconied rooms that looked down on an inner courtyard. There were also private villas, in different native styles, dotted around. The hotel faced the sea and its restaurant and bar was a broad balcony, with table and chairs and a lounge area for watching the sunset.

Their room was one of the better ones. It had a fiercely active air-con and a double-sized balcony equipped with chairs and a table. There was a bottle of wine in an ice bucket waiting for them and the bed was covered in petals. It was the honeymoon suite, they both realised at the same time.

‘Ah!’ Becky stood in the centre of the room and looked around. ‘That would explain the giggling girls on reception.’ She suddenly felt really awkward. It was the first time they had been on their own with no one else around.

Mann looked at Becky. He could see she was embarrassed.

‘Don’t worry, I will get them to put up a spare bed.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘And I will kill Shrimp when we next see him.’

She smiled and shook her head. ‘Okay-that’s great, about the spare bed, I mean.’ She felt a little stupid for getting flustered. As if Mann was going to make a move on her anyway? She rebuked herself. ‘On the plus side-we get free champagne,’ she said. ‘What’s the plan now?’

‘Catching up with Fat Harry and English Bob later on, and I have made an appointment for us to view a place at four. A local estate agent is about to show us some sought-after property. I think it’s best if we fly up to Negros from here tomorrow-not Manila-change of plan.’

‘Why do you want to do that?’

‘There’s a big triad stronghold there. I think we have to check it out. We could find out more about CK and we might learn who’s holding Amy. But we have a couple of hours to kill before any of it starts, so I suggest we go and inspect the beach. You ready to check it out? And, one more thing,’ he shouted as he headed into the bathroom, ‘you can be as loving as you like to me, Becky, as newlyweds we’d better make our cover convincing.’ He came out once he’d changed into his board shorts and winked at her.

‘Yeah, you can bugger off.’ She hid a smile and carried on rummaging through her suitcase.

‘Okay, baby-see you on the beach in a few minutes.’ He ducked and dived out of the door as she threw a flip-flop at him.

He got outside the door. He didn’t like deceiving her. He had no intention of going to Negros, but he had to see where that lie would lead them. They definitely had a mole, someone had been aware of all their movements so far. Mann didn’t believe it was Becky, but he had to be sure. He checked his phone; he had a text message from Ng:

Alex Stamp no longer in Hong Kong. He didn’t boarda UK flight…Suggest he is in Philippines.

Then again, thought Mann, maybe Becky didn’t realise she was the mole.