The tall man draped an arm over Marisa's shoulder, guiding her gently with pressure from his fingers. When they were three feet away, he let the arm fall and Marisa stopped. She held out a hand, and Bolan took it in his own. Then turning slightly and moving a step away, she allowed the tall man to take her place. He, too, held out a hand as Marisa said, "Mr. Belasko, this is Tom Colgan."
Bolan tried not to react. Marisa, of course, couldn't see him. Colgan himself, though, was another matter. Bolan could hear Frank Henson's voice in his head, saying "Colgan" over and over again. He noticed the man's eyes and wondered just how much they could see. Like two blue beacons, they burned with a dark light, set deep in the leathery skin. Bolan had the funny feeling that Colgan could look right through him, even see the bones buried deep inside him, as if looking at an X ray.
The eyes looked as though they had a life of their own. He'd seen eyes like them before, but not lately.
They were the eyes of a madman or, perhaps worse, a zealot.
The tall man clasped Bolan's hand in both of his own and shook it warmly.
"Tom is my husband," Marisa said.
"I see," Bolan replied.
She laughed. "I don't think you do." The laughter was genuine, as if some great pressure inside her had been mysteriously released or a weight lifted from her shoulders by an unseen hand.
"I've been waiting to meet you, Mr. Belasko. You are wondering how I knew you were coming. I understand. Let's get you something to eat. We can talk over breakfast."
Bolan nodded. "Fine."
"This way," Colgan said. He turned, and without waiting but to see whether Bolan would follow, he walked toward one end of the half moon of buildings. Marisa followed, glancing back at Bolan over her shoulder.
Bolan fell in behind the couple, wondering what other surprises lay in store for him. That there would be more was beyond question. Colgan ducked to enter the last building on the left, and Marisa disappeared right after him. Bolan hesitated for a moment, then stepped into the dimly lit interior.
The mess hall was functionally laid out; four rows of tables and benches, all roughly hewn from the same raw wood, ran the length of the building, leaving aisles after every pair to make navigation easier. A door, similar to the one he'd just entered, sat in the middle of the far wall, and two more opposed one another at either end.
One of the tables was already set for three. The simple tin dishes and Army-issue utensils brought Bolan back years to a time he'd rather forget.
Colgan helped Marisa slide in between bench and table, then sat across from her. He nodded toward the remaining plate, next to Marisa, and said, "Help yourself. We don't stand on ceremony here."
Bolan looked at the food, mostly rice with an admixture of a stringy red vegetable somewhere between pimiento and pepper and thick hunks of something that was probably fish.
Bolan took a mouthful, tasted it cautiously, then swallowed. It wasn't bad, but it was not going to be the latest rage in nouvelle cuisine, either.
While they ate, Colgan began to fill him in.
"Marisa tells me you don't know very much about Charles Harding."
"That's right," Bolan said.
"But you were following him." Bolan noticed that it was a statement, not a question. "Look, you don't have to say anything. I know what I know. And I know you were following him. What I know, and you don't, is why."
"Oh?" Bolan raised an eyebrow at that.
"That think-tank charade is pure fluff, garbage, window dressing, for Christ's sake. That nonsense is about as legitimate as three-card monte on a New York street corner."
"Then what is he really up to?"
"I only know part of it," Colgan said, reaching for a tin cup to wash some of the rice down with tepid water. "Look, Belasko, let's be honest with one another. Harding is fronting, maybe even masterminding, although I can't prove it, a plot to overthrow the Aquino government. That's why he is here, and that's what he's been doing ever since she took over."
"And I suppose you're a white knight who plans to rescue the lady from the dragon."
"Something like that, yes. But the lady is not who you think she is, Mr. Belasko. The lady is not Corazon Aquino she is the Republic of the Philippines."
"So you tried to have Harding iced..." Bolan watched Colgan chew one of the chunks of fish, reach in gingerly to pull a small white bone from between his teeth and shake his head in disagreement.
"No," he argued. "That business at the airport was his people."
Bolan grunted. "What'd he do, make off with the treasury?"
"Nope. It's probably a lot simpler than that."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really."
"Then why?"
"Because you were following him. Maybe they were after you, Mr. Belasko. Maybe it's even as simple as that. The people behind him are scared. They're a special breed. I call them the mushrooms. They only grow in the dark, and the more shit around them, the better they like it."
"And you think that's why I was following him? To let some light into the cellar?" Bolan scooped a forkful of the sticky rice into his mouth. It was getting cold, and the grains were clumping together into a pasty mass in his mouth. He dropped the fork and let it lie on the table. "Well, I'll tell you something, Mr. Colgan. You couldn't be further off the mark."
"Whatever you say."
"If you know something, Colgan, spit it out. Otherwise let's just shut up and eat whatever the hell this is. And I'll be on my way."
"Look, you think things are okay here. You think, now that Marcox is gone, the Philippines can settle down to a nice, quiet Third World siesta. Mama Aquino is here to spank people like me who get out of line, so Uncle Sam can sleep well at night. But it isn't like that. You know, most Americans think reality is what's in the newspapers. But they're dead wrong. Reality is what people don't let into the papers. It's Ollie North and Rose Mary Woods, Lee Harvey Oswald and Gavrilo Princip. It's what's in the tucking dark, Belasko, that's what reality is."
"So where does Harding come in?"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you, man. Harding is just one of them. And not the most significant. In this chess game, he's a bishop, no more. But the queen, Belasko, the queen, that's where the power lies. And she's down there somewhere, in the dark, planning it all, trying to reshape the Philippines in the image of Ferdinand Marcos. He was the liaison man, the conduit between the Pentagon and the Leyte Brigade."
"Never heard of it," Bolan said, not particularly impressed.
"You will, and you can take that to the bank. Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Unless we manage to uproot it, kill it, let it lie there in the bright sun and shrivel up like a dandelion. These are tucking vampires Belasko, that's what we're talking about. They need the darkness, deep cover. They know every trick in the book, everything from false flags to bamboo under the fingernails. They have money and they have connections, in Aquino's government and in the Pentagon. That's what it's all about. Getting rid of Aquino and replacing her with a right-wing government. Generals in her own army get drunk and talk about setting her head out on a stake. This is not kindergarten here, man. And you have been sent to school without your textbooks. You better be a quick learner, Mr. Belasko."
"Then why doesn't anyone know about it in the States?"