Greer didn’t know Manado well enough to be sure that the driver was headed for the right location. But when the car came to a stop, he recognized the sagging wall, the overgrown shrubbery, and the ornamental gate. “Stay here,” Greer ordered. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay extra if you wait.”
Water splashed away from Greer’s combat boots, and seeped down the back of his neck, as he passed through the gate and entered the cemetery beyond. The relentless downpour made the graveyard even more depressing than it had been the first time he’d been there.
But death wouldn’t wait. Four grave diggers, all wearing ponchos, were hard at work under a structure consisting of bamboo poles and a ragged tarp. Were they the same men Greer had seen last time? Probably.
Greer walked past them to the section of the cemetery where Mary had been laid to rest. Everything was the same. The weeds were just as tall. Headstones still lay where they had fallen. And the grave that Greer knew to be Mary’s was marked by nothing more than a wooden cross. That in spite of the money Greer had given to Father Wijaya.
The pain was waiting deep inside of him. And as Greer knelt in the mud, he could feel his emotions churn as sorrow morphed into rage. “I’m sorry Mary,” Greer said, tears trickling down his cheeks. “I will punish the bastard. And, when the war is over, I will return. A monument will be constructed on this spot. I love you.”
And with that Greer stood, turned his back on the grave, and made his way out to the street. The taxi was gone. Revenge? For the radio? Or boredom? Greer would never know.
But it caused Greer to change course. He had Wijaya’s card. And, after digging it out of his wallet, Greer saw that the priest lived on the same street as the cemetery.
There was a parsonage then, and close by, which made sense. Greer performed a slow three-sixty, spotted a steeple in the distance, and knew his theory was correct.
With the steeple to guide him Greer followed the street west. A shabby church appeared. That was when Greer saw that the steeple wasn’t a steeple, but a steel tripod, with a bell and a crucifix mounted up top.
Memories stuttered through Greer’s mind. The convoy, the ambush, and Boyle dying. All because the Filipinos knew the rescue party was coming. And how did they know that? Because a spy told them, that’s how. A spy who, despite a vow of poverty, was eager to make some money. Or, was that a reach? Greer was determined to find out.
Thunder muttered as Greer approached the entrance to the church. One of the double doors was open. The interior was lit by wall sconces and the candles in front of the altar. The flames wavered uncertainly as a gust of wind entered the nave.
All of the parishioners were women. And looked up from their prayers as Greer made his way along the right side of the cavernous room to a door. A sign said, “Private” in English, and what Greer thought was Bahasa. The door was equipped with a hasp. An open padlock dangled from it. Did that mean the priest was within?
Greer drew his pistol and turned the knob. The door opened easily. Music was playing, classical music. And the lighting was dim. Sculptures lurked in the gloom—celebrations of male beauty copied from well-known Greek and Roman artifacts.
A spotlight threw a circle of light onto the planked floor. And there, lit from above, was Wijaya. The priest was naked. And though no fan of ballet, Greer recognized the Arabesque for what it was. Wijaya was standing on one foot, his arms extended.
Greer shot the priest in the knee. Blood flew and Wijaya screamed as he fell. Greer waited to see if the parishioners would come running. None of them did.
Wijaya was lying on his back holding onto his bloody knee while rolling back and forth. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Why? Why did you shoot me?”
Greer knelt just beyond the puddle of blood. “I gave you money. You made promises. None were kept.”
Wijaya seemed to recognize Greer for the first time. “The headstone? This is about the fucking headstone?”
“Yes,” Greer answered. “And it’s about the information you passed to the Philippine government. Information that led to dozens of deaths.”
Greer had no proof of that. But the priest assumed that he did. “No! That’s impossible. I sent them a picture of her face. I told them about you, and the man who was with you, that’s all.”
The photo came as a shock. Mary had been dead when Wijaya snapped it. But that, plus a written description of Dalisay, would be enough to trigger an investigation.
And, after the authorities compared Mary’s photo to the images of her taken at the prison, they’d been able to put the rest of it together.
Greer stood. Wijaya stared into the barrel of the pistol. “No! I’m a priest. God will punish you!”
“He already has,” Greer said. And he pulled the trigger.
Greer hadn’t touched anything up to that point, and was careful to avoid doing so, as he left through a rear entrance. America was waiting. And that at least, was a good thing.
***
Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea
The flight from Manado, Indonesia to Port Moresby, in Papua New Guinea, had taken more than four hours. So, by the time the eight passenger C-21 began its approach into Jacksons International Airport, it was midafternoon. The Air Force pilot put the jet down with a gentle bump.
But rather than the main terminal, the pilot taxied to a remote hangar located next to
