Visions of Liberty

Andy introduced me to our local contact, Jose Guzman, known to everyone as “Boyet,” who I’d called on to help Andy “meet” Sophia Ackerman off the plane.

“We’ve got one of our people in the condo security force, and three or four others discreetly patrolling the streets around the building.”

“Is that enough?” I asked.

“You have to understand that in the Philippines most everything is the opposite to what you’re used to. For example, in America, you have law but no government; here we have government but no law.”

“Maybe it’s jetlag, but I don’t get it.”

“The system here works on grease. Bribery and corruption. Of course there are laws—the government makes new ones every day. But whether they’re enforced, or how, depends on who pays what to whom. Going to court here is like going to an auction.

“What that means is everything and everyone is for sale. So you’ve got to know who you can really trust. That’s why I’ve put so few people onto Murdock. Once somebody talks, inevitably it will get back to Murdock or the people he’s paid off, and your bird will fly away.”

“So what do we do? And there’s no extradition agreement we can use.”

“Andy and I have talked about that. Here’s what I suggest we do….”

* * *

It took another week of long days and sleepless nights, intense negotiations, not to mention considerable expense, before we were ready to spring the trap on Murdock. Speed, Boyet stressed, was the essence—a difficult proposition in a country where the local equivalent of the Mexican word manana didn’t have quite the same sense of urgency—to make sure Murdock didn’t get wind of what we were up to.

As every day passed, more and more people were involved. We did our best to ensure secrecy by paying officials—up to and including the President—bribes we were pretty sure Murdock couldn’t match; and one condition of the payments was that 80 percent of the money only got paid when Murdock was on a plane out of the country in handcuffs.

That didn’t mean someone who got wind of things couldn’t extract a healthy “reward” from Murdock for tipping him off. In my nightmares I was part of a gun battle between two groups of rent-a-cops on the streets of Manila.

On the appointed day, Tim—one of our two operatives who’d befriended Murdock—knocked on the door of his apartment. I, Andy, Boyet, the local chief of police and a couple of cops stood well back from the door. Other police, teamed up with Boyet’s people, stood guard on the apartment’s rear entrance, and took control of the lobby to guard the elevators as well as prevent the security guards from giving any warning.

“Hey, Tim, come in,” said Murdock as he opened the door. Tim took a step forward and then pushed Murdock hard in the chest so he fell backward, landing in a heap on the floor. We rushed in, guns drawn.

“You bastards. Andyou,” he screamed, pointing at Tim, “are a low-down, lying, shit-faced scum of the earth.”

Two of the cops pulled him up and handcuffed his wrists behind his back. I heard a crash as Andy put his foot through one of the bedroom doors. In a moment a chastened Sophia Ackerman was led into the living room.

“You bitch,” said Murdock, his face reddening with his fury. “You brought them here.” Forgetting the handcuffs, he struggled to hit her. Realizing he couldn’t, he spat in her face instead.

“Yes,” said Andy, smiling, “she led me a merry chase. Almost lost her a couple of times. And it looks like we got here just in time: she was packing for a trip.”

“And I never saw you, damn your eyes,” she said.

“Another hour, we’d have been outta here,” said Murdock. “You bastards.” I managed to pirouette out of the way as he spat again in my direction.

“Anyway,” he said, pulling himself up and trying to look officious and innocent at the same time, “you have no right to be here. I’ve committed no crime. What’s this all about?”

The chief of police pulled out a thick file of papers. Waving them in Murdock’s direction he explained: “I have here an order of extradition, signed by the President of the Philippines, for the apprehension of Gerald Murdock and Sophia—”

“Gerald?” said Murdock.

“You,” I said. “The goatee and the nose job are certainly a good disguise. Even if you’ve changed your fingerprints all we have to do is pull off those contact lenses and a retina scan will be conclusive.”

Murdock’s shoulders slumped.

Sophia Ackerman turned to the chief of police: “You have a warrant formy arrest? On what grounds?” “Embezzlement, false pretences, defrauding an insurance company,” he replied.

“I’ve not been convicted of any such thing,” she said adamantly.

“True and not true. At the same time,” I said.

A puzzled look crossed her face. “What bullshit!”

“This gentleman here,” I said, indicating the chief of police, “has a presidential order to extradite you from

the country. So you must have been convicted. Here, at least. By the time we land in San Francisco, All-Risks will have presented its case before an adjudicator. In your absence there’s a chance the hearing will find prima facie, against you. The best you can hope for is a new date for the hearing, since All-Risks won’t have given the proper notice.”

“Anyway,” said Murdock, “what’s this about extradition? The Philippines has no extradition treaty with America.”

“It does now. Here,” I said, pulling out a sheaf of papers, “is a treaty between All-Risks and the government of the Philippines, signed by the President. Something for you to read… on the plane.”

“That can’t be legal,” said Murdock. “Don’t you need an act of Congress or something? Presidential order ain’t enough. I want to talk to my lawyer.”

“That won’t be possible,” said the chief of police. Pulling out another sheet of paper which he offered to Murdock, grinning when he remembered the handcuffs, he continued: “This is an order for your immediate deportation. It seems that your visa, as well as Miss Ackerman’s, has expired.”

Murdock looked like he was about to explode. Then his body relaxed and he turned to me with a glint of admiration in his eyes. “You really pulled out all the stops, eh?”

“Well, Berkshire Re did.”

“Oh, that I didn’t know.”

“You know, you’d have done better to stay at home,” I told him. “Not in San Francisco, of course.

Some other American city. With your money, your disguise and new fingerprints, just by avoiding retina scans we might never have found you. In a place where government is for sale, you can always be outbid.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“Look on the bright side. Here, the penalty for murder is death. Back home, all you have to do is pay back all the money and you’re a free man.” The prospect didn’t seem to be all that appealing to Murdock. I could sympathize: from wealth to poverty in matter of moments.

“And what about me?” asked Sophia Ackerman.

“Same thing. The presumption is you’re an accessory to murder. That was your plan, right?” I said, looking from one to the other. “You were after Ackerman’s insurance—the 110,115 gold ounces Sophia got for your murder of hubbie.”

They stared at me blankly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

I looked at Sophia admiringly—an easy thing to do.

“You’re a good actress,” I said. “I saw the holo.”

She spat at me, this time connecting.

“Time to go,” said Andy, looking at his watch.

“Right,” I agreed, wiping the spittle off my face. “Let’s move—we all have a plane to catch.”

THE COLONIZING OF THARLE