Episode Nine: Noontime Shadows

Every person around them stopped eating, or walking, or chatting. The whole food court was silent. Every eye trained with laser focus on the two men. Mobile phones came out, cameras turned on, video rolling.

Alexei slammed his cutlery down, wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood up. He squeezed out between two tables and wandered slowly, but purposefully, over to the man, who stood there, utterly transfixed with fear.

Alexei stood right in front of the man, centimetres from his face. The whole food court sucked in a deep breath.

‘You know, my friend, it is racist to think that all Russians look the same.’ Alexei fizzed, before quietly walking away.

He was trending within seconds.

But the truth was, it was him. He had done it. As he strutted down the mall hallways, he recalled the raid on the Oles Honchar National University. They knew there were conscientious objectors there. Ukrainian sympathisers. Working for the enemy. Feeding them intelligence. They’d burst upon the unsuspecting student accommodation like a lion stalking its prey. Stormed from room to room. Yanked suspects out for torture, deportation or death. Men or women, it made no difference.

And if they didn’t collaborate? If they struggled? If they resisted?

Shot. Shot in cold blood.

The bangs and the cries and the distress and the screams echoed around Alexei’s consciousness far louder than the merry cacophony around him. The lights and sound that once enticed him now mocked him. Teased him. Taunted him. Theirs was freedom. Theirs was joy. Theirs was happiness.

But his fate was misery and anger and death.

He marched, arrow straight, towards the exit, scattering stunned shoppers and couples and aging foreigners and children as he did so.

This was not his place.

He was a foreigner here.

But putting a bullet through the head of the scumbag who hurt his wife?

That was home territory.

He smiled.

He would be home tomorrow.

To Verity, Heaven’s Peak was a most wonderful place. A floral garden high up in the mountains behind Ormoc and Lake Danao, its beautiful colours and scents were a testimony to the outstanding gardener who designed this place. She paid the entry fee without question and wandered, alongside other fellow visitors, who were giddy with delight and taking endless selfies and videos for social media, through the narrow pathways between the blooms.

She had come here for one purpose and one purpose only: to clear her aching head in the cool mountain air and to experience the delights of nature. She kept wandering until she found an ornate white chair in a circular clearing, and there she sat her weary body down, head in hands, in the gentle mountain sun.

Just as she’d found the one quieter place without excitable selfies, her phone buzzed. She saw who the caller was and sighed. But she thought better of ignoring it.

‘Hi, Sir Gabriel.’ She greeted her Editor.

‘Where are you?’ he asked her.

‘Heaven’s Peak.’ she told him, an air of sadness in her tone.

‘Stay there.’ he instructed her. ‘I’ll be there in less than an hour.’

That actually comforted her a little. Well, he won’t sack me here, she thought to herself. Not in a place like this. That would really be heartless.

Alexei had only just arrived back in his hotel when his phone rang. He took the call.

He soon wished he hadn’t.

‘What are you thinking, picking a fight with some guy in a mall food court? Do you know why the Philippines has so few CCTV cameras? It’s because every Filipino has a CCTV camera, and they are not shy about using it! Your face is all over social media. Is that what you wanted?’ Michael was furious, frustrated and he wanted Alexei to know it.

Alexei was still sanguine. ‘Come on! That guy was the problem. In fact, this place is the problem. Why did Valdez have to come from a country where every second person goes abroad to somewhere they can barely spell?’ he argued, as guests and staff milled around him in the cavernous entry hall, oblivious to the nature of his conversation.

‘Orlov, they will find out who you are, they will expose the mission and they will stop you from earning your two million. Doesn’t that even bother you?’ Michael thundered.

Alexei brushed him off. ‘Nah! Don’t be crazy! These people are not that clever.’

Michael could not be mollified. ‘Never underestimate a Filipino.’ He snarled.

Or, for that matter, an aging Glaswegian with too much time on his hands. Not required for consulting for the operation at the Heritage Hotel, which he still had every intention of attending, in a freelance capacity, Don had been brooding in his small house in the Camella subdivision.

His small house which, on one wall, had a map on a pin board with pins in lots of locations: Angeles City, Manila, Cebu, Tokyo, Busan, Bali, Dubai, Jeddah, Istanbul, Bucharest, Budapest, Krakow, Vienna, Munich, Paris, London, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Aberdeen, Dublin, New York and countless other cities across the US and Canada. From all of those cities, a piece of string attached to their pin led to a photo of one person and one person only:

Shiloh Stalker Valdez.

And on top of the map, as if to remind him of the price paid by every person embroiled in their deeply wicked empire, was the summary of the court judgment on the death of Charlotte Chapman, and a picture of the woman herself.

This was his obsession.

To bring justice for women like her.

To prevent it from happening again to anyone else.

Something bothered him. It ate away at him. But somehow he couldn’t put his finger on it.

And then it struck him: it had been too neat. Too easy. And why did she have her passport on her when she drowned? It didn’t make sense!

But all of a sudden, it did.

He banged the heel of his right hand against his head. Of course! Why hadn’t he seen it?

He opened his laptop and searched through his Documents folder. And there it was: the Court of Session judgment. Something in this document was badly, badly off.

He skim read through the text, anxiously searching for the pictures.

And then he saw it. Plain as day. Plain as the nose on your face.

The hearing had been a waste of time. It shouldn’t have been held. There shouldn’t have been a hearing because...

Nobody died.

Her death had been faked to allow her to live a different life. The passport was symbolic. Symbolic of a new life.

Right then and there, his social media was alive with chatter. Pictures and video were being shared left and right, as if a single event was all that it took to brighten up a bunch of people’s dull and lifeless existences, which was, if he was honest, likely the case. Forums were ablaze. Fragments of facts, fractured details, flew around the internet like shrapnel from an explosion.

Alexei Orlov.

Russian soldier in the Wagner regiment.

Currently AWOL.

American diplomatic passport holder.

Wife rescued from a brothel in Krakow.

Don’s head spun like a hyperactive top. He stood up. He paced rapidly round the room. ‘Russian soldier. Trained killer. Diplomatic passport. Wife in Krakow. Rescued from a brothel. He’s in the Philippines. Why? Why? Why? Why?’

The pieces were there. They were there! If he could just put them together. If he could just...

And then it hit him hard.

‘He’s going to kill Valdez!’ he exclaimed, before clapping his band over his mouth. ‘He’s going to kill Valdez, and the Americans are behind it!’

He reached for his phone, snatched it from beside his laptop and texted, ‘Avengers assemble!’

However, the reply that came back right away brought him back down to earth with a stunning bump: ‘Not yet, Sir Donald.’

He would not take ‘No’ for an answer. He knew where two of them would be, at least. He just needed his trusty multicab.

The fast craft sailed serenely into the Port of Ormoc. Gloria and Charlotte had no large luggage, so they disembarked within ten minutes and walked calmly towards the car park.

However, that calmness disappeared in an instant.

‘Charlotte Chapman?’ a familiar voice said behind them.

She turned to face it.

‘Don’t turn around.’ the voice snapped. ‘Just confirm your name.’

‘Yes, yes, it’s me.’ she confirmed, already somewhat perturbed.

‘I’m detaining you under suspicion of breaching Republic Act 9208, also known as the Anti-Trafficking Act of 2003, and Executive Order number 46, section 4, namely, participating in an organised criminal group. You have the right to remain silent...’

He grabbed at her wrists and pulled them together. She was too stunned to pull them back. Metallic cuffs clicked.

The voice continued. ‘Any statement you make may be used against you in a court of law in the Philippines. You have the right to have a competent and independent counsel preferably of your own choice. If you cannot afford the services of a counsel, the government will provide you one. Do you understand these rights?’

‘I don’t understand what's happening, Officer Gomez. What are you doing?’ she pleaded.

Gloria was stunned into silence.

‘Just play along.’ he whispered.

‘Yes, yes, I understand these rights.’

she confirmed, shaking with fright.

‘Then come with me.’ he told her. ‘I suggest you come too.’ he said loudly to Gloria. ‘Unless you want to be charged with harbouring a criminal.’

‘Okay. I’ll come.’ Gloria said hastily.

He led them to a marked police car, helped them get inside, and then drove out of the port.

Charlotte stared out the window in complete and utter disbelief. For years she had run from the law. Now she was being arrested by a man who helped change her life?

Gloria was thoroughly bewildered. ‘Officer Gomez, what is happening here?’ she asked him.

‘Not now. Not yet. I’ll explain at the station.’ he told them, sternly tight-lipped. However, he glanced towards the sky briefly. He saw exactly what he wanted to see. Good. They’re watching. Let them watch, he thought to himself. Hope they enjoy the show.

While Gloria and Charlotte were taken into the police station, booked in and then placed in separate cells, Gabriel arrived at the rather more salubrious surroundings of Heaven’s Peak. This place was just a joy to behold, but right now he could not do much beholding. He walked quickly down the narrow pathways, avoiding happy couples posing for floral pictorials and countless selfies, before he saw Verity, seated quietly on a decorated white metal seat, her head still in her hands.

‘He complained, you know.’ he said gently to her. ‘He didn’t want you fired. He just wanted you to be respectful.’

‘I’m so sorry, Sir Gabriel. I really let you down.’ Verity pleaded with him.

Gabriel continued. ‘Well, I apologised to him and I put it down to cultural differences. He accepted it. But you really cannot do that again.’

‘I don’t know. I always thought I was good at this. Now I wonder if I’m just too aggressive. And angry.’ Verity mused.

Gabriel joked a little to lighten the mood. ‘I think they wondered too. But mostly if you like girls.’

‘Why does everyone think that?’ Verity whined.

‘Let me think: biker, never wears a skirt, very aggressive in interviews... no, I can’t see it either.’ Gabriel jested to lighten the mood.

Verity smiled briefly. ‘Thank you, Sir Gabriel. But I’m not sure I can do this anymore. I'll only make trouble for you and the paper.’

‘Do you know something?’ Gabriel told her. ‘I think that’s why Doug wanted you here. You make trouble. You kick up dust. You create a lot of noise. Then you get to the truth. We could not do that. We’re polite. We’re respectful. Mainly because we want to stay alive. But you: you're young, your fearless, and your friend was hurt by a despicable man....’

‘Person.’ Verity interjected.

‘You're going woke on me now? Don’t interrupt – I’m giving you a pep talk.’ Gabriel grinned.

‘Okay. Sorry, sir.’ Verity smiled bashfully.

Gabriel continued. ‘Maybe you are just what we need. Especially for the next part of the operation. I mean, Sir Don in a dress just would not fly.’

‘I don’t know. I've been to the Edinburgh Fringe. There might be a market out there for old, hairy Scotsmen in kilts.’ Verity joked.

‘Wow! This world is truly sick.’ Gabriel parried back. ‘Come on. Let’s head back to Ormoc. Your crazy compatriot is already looking for us.’

‘He's just lonely.’ Verity quipped, as she picked up her helmet, gloves and rucksack and followed Gabriel out of Heaven’s Peak, stopping as they did so to take a mobile phone picture for a young couple in love.

Twenty minutes later, as they drove past Highlands Barbecue, two black SUVs with tinted windows pulled out and led them all the way down the hill to Ormoc.

Verity thought better than to overtake. Even though she could.

Half an hour later, red faced and sweating more than usual, even in the increased heat and humidity outside, Don arrived at the blue and white facade of Police Station number 1 on Jose Navarro Street. He quickly passed through the metal detector security check and approached the front desk.

He greeted the somewhat taken aback young desk sergeant on duty. 'Maayong udto. Is Detective Roberta Gonzalez here? Or Rohelio Gomez? I have to speak to one of them. Or both. Preferably both. Thank you.’ he blurted.

‘Okay, sir. Let me see.’ The desk sergeant muttered something in Bisaya so deep that even Don, who had been in the country for years, could not make out.

The reply came in an incomprehensible mumble and a hiss of static.

‘They are here, sir. They will come. Please, take a seat.’ The desk sergeant gestured towards a wooden bench, attached to the wall. Don thanked him and backed onto it, drumming his feet nervously on the floor as he waited.

The two police officers emerged from the rear of the front desk and approached Don. ‘Good afternoon, Sir Don. What brings you here?’ Roberta greeted him with at least superficial politeness.

‘Not here. Not here. You never know who might be listening.’ Don whispered furtively.

‘Sir Don, we have police business here and an operation this afternoon...’ Rohelio argued.

‘Trust me: you will want to hear this.’ Don told them, the urgency plain in his voice. ‘Come with me to a place no-one else ever goes to. It’ll only take a few minutes.’

‘Where?’ Roberta asked.

‘The back of my multicab.’ Don whispered.

They followed him reluctantly to his vehicle, parked kerbside on Aviles Street.

‘You do realise, Sir Don, that if this is not worth it, I could have you arrested for wasting police time.’ Roberta chided him.

‘Oh, it’s definitely worth it.’ Don assured them as they clambered inside, and cars rumbled slowly past then, staring at the odd sight of a crazy-looking foreigner, a uniformed police officer and a guy in a shirt and trousers getting into a multicab with no driver.

If Don was doing this to avoid attention, it wasn’t working.

‘Okay, let’s hear it.’ Rohelio commanded him impatiently as soon as they were seated.

‘Right, this whole case began with Charlotte Chapman's – Verity’s friend’s – untimely demise seven years ago. Only, what if she isn’t dead?’ Don asked excitedly.

‘She isn’t.’ Rohelio said flatly.

Don wasn’t listening. He was too carried away. ‘It struck me this morning. It was when that guy – the owner of La Vista – was giving us the tour after breakfast. They have that pool – wonderful pool it is too – and his youngest daughter was swimming in it. She was able to hold her breath and stay underwater from one side of the pool to the other. I should have thought it at the time, but it only hit me this morning. There was no evidence a body had even been at the bottom of the Clyde, because there was no body. Charlotte had been a strong swimmer before she got caught up with Valdez. She could easily have faked her own death, swam over to another bank of the river and walked away.’

‘We know. Because that’s what happened.’ Rohelio told him.

Again, Don didn’t react. ‘That means that Charlotte Chapman is likely still alive, and if we could find her and turn her...’

‘We know. She’s been turned.’ Rohelio told him firmly.

‘How can she have been turned?’ Don asked.

‘Because she jumped off a ship and I had her rescued by Ma’am Gloria Amparo.’ Rohelio smiled gently.

‘The evangelist who runs that woman’s shelter on Poro Island? Woah! You rolled out the big guns!’ Don responded in awe. ‘So, she’s still alive? And we have her?’

Roberta gestured behind her, towards the police station. ‘In there, under caution. Now, if that’s all you have, we’d like to get back to questioning her.’

They both motioned to leave.

‘No, wait!’ Don stopped them. ‘There's something else. And it's a doozie. The CIA has sent a Russian mercenary to kill Shiloh Stalker Valdez.’

‘What!?!’ Roberta and Rohelio exclaimed, stunned, as they sat back down.

‘Have you been drinking whisky again?’ Roberta scolded him.

‘Is that all you think we Scots drink?’ Don shot back. ‘I mean, seriously, we must have about a million ways of getting hammered. And we have Irn Bru for our hangovers. Look, the evidence fits. A former Wagner soldier was filmed yesterday in a bit of a bust-up with a local in Cebu. Nerds on the internet have identified him as Alexei Orlov. Someone somehow found out that this guy has a US diplomatic passport. And get this: his wife was rescued from a brothel in Krakow, Poland – a brothel owned by.... your man Shiloh Stalker Valdez.’

‘So your theory is that the CIA is using an angry Russian soldier out for revenge to kill Valdez? That’s crazy! Why would they do that?' Roberta dismissed him, while simultaneously worrying that he might actually be right.

Rohelio thought hard for a few seconds. ‘No, hold on. He might be on to something here.’ he mused. ‘It would explain our tails. And this morning I had to detain Chapman because I could see a drone watching me the whole time.’

‘What? You mean one of those big missile-y ones that blow stuff up?’ Don asked.

‘No, I mean a small drone like you can buy from an electronics store.’ Rohelio told him.

Don’s eyes widened with sheer adrenaline. ‘Yeah, but I bet it’s only a matter of time before they start using the spy satellites, and the UAVs and the Reaper drones.’

‘No, I don’t think so. If they’re using a Russian mercenary, it’s probably because they want their hands clean.’ Rohelio clarified.

‘You two are crazy! This is ridiculous! Why would an organisation like the CIA be interested in a small-time trafficker like Shiloh Stalker Valdez?’ Roberta argued.

‘What? You mean, a man who runs brothels and love motels and online porn during the run-up to an American election, contested mostly by grey, elderly males trying to recapture their virile youth?’ Don asked rhetorically. ‘We have to warn Valdez. Maybe use it to get him to turn himself in.’

‘This is crazy... Just... crazy! I'm out. I have better things to do.’ Roberta slid out of the vehicle and walked towards the police station.

‘Great work, pare!’ Rohelio sincerely congratulated Don as he followed Roberta.

‘And that’s it?’ Don said to himself as they left. 'No reward? No medal? Not even my picture in a frame and on a wall? I'm just not appreciated here!'

Roberta entered the police station and, on the pretence of needing to find some paperwork, went into her office, made sure the door was closed and took out her phone. She quickly dialled a number.

‘I told you not to call me. Never call me. We call you. You do not call us.’ Michael snapped.

Roberta wasn’t messing around. She went straight for the jugular. ‘Just answer me one question: has the CIA sent a Russian mercenary to kill Valdez?’

‘I am not at liberty to comment on operational matters.’ Michael hissed.

Roberta wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly what that meant. ‘Well, then, you have lost my cooperation. I spent four years investigating Extrajudicial Killings during the Duterte era. I lost... so much. You will not send me back there. If he is found on my territory, I will personally arrest him.’

‘You will do no such thing!’ Michael barked. ‘You will do nothing to impede a CIA operation.’

‘You have no jurisdiction here!’ Roberta snarled back, before ending the call.

She took a deep breath to compose herself.

Don was correct. And that was so frustrating.

There was no way she would tell him.

But if the CIA knew about Charlotte, and knew where she was...

Roberta dashed through into the bullring, where Rohelio was seated behind a borrowed desk. She ran over to him. He looked up, startled by the panicked look on her face. ‘We have to move them. Now!’ she snapped.

Shiloh was stood in front of the wooden wardrobe in their room at the Sabin Hotel, barely dressed in a shocking pink bra, thong panties that made their butt cheeks stick out like brown jackfruit and a pair of suspenders that looked like they had been stolen from the cast of the ‘Rocky Horror Picture Show’, deciding which dress they should wear for this auspicious occasion. They were a little frustrated. They could only bring twenty-five kilos on their flight from Thailand and didn’t feel like burdening their minions by paying for extra cases they would have to carry. That meant they’d had to leave behind the best of their clothing.

But still, surely they could find something to wear.

While they stood in front of the wooden wardrobe, browsing through the clothes they had managed to bring with them, there was a knock at the door.

‘Enter!’ Shiloh called out regally.

Their assistant Maja Hernandez opened the door, tablet computer in hand, saw what she saw, immediately closed the door behind her and shielded her eyes with a hand.

Shiloh looked behind themself and saw her. ‘Oh, don’t be such a cis prude. You’ve seen me in a worse state than this.’

‘Yes, but not sober, Ma’am. And not alone.’ Maja replied.

‘I assume you’re here for some reason.’ Shiloh pronounced.

‘Yes, Ma’am. For one thing, we should get going as the auditions start in less than an hour.’ Maja told them.

‘Noted. But then, they can’t start without me anyway, can they?’ Shiloh grinned.

‘Oh, and also, Charlotte Chapman, also known as Cherry Popper, is not dead.’ Maja told them dryly, as if it didn’t matter, when it did. It really did.

Now she had their attention. ‘What?’ Shiloh exclaimed, spinning round on their heels to stare at her.

‘And she’s been arrested. She was last seen by one of our people in handcuffs in the company of an NBI officer, a Rohelio Gomez. And this woman too.’ She turned the tablet so Shiloh could see the picture on the screen.

Shiloh inhaled deeply. ‘No way!’ they exclaimed in shock.

‘Do you know her?

‘Do I know her? She is the arch enemy of our community. We hate her.’ Shiloh spat.

‘But why? She’s just a little old lady.’ Maja asked him.

‘Because she is an evangelist. She converts people. She’ll probably have tried to convert Cherry, but she’s too smart for that. That old lady has a property somewhere. We’ve lost people to it and they've never come back. She has to be stopped.’ Shiloh snapped. ‘Where are they?’

‘The tricycle driver who sent us this picture says they are in Police Station number 1 in Ormoc.’ she told Shiloh.

‘In that case, get the clean-up crew onto it.’

Now it was Maja’s turn to be afraid. ‘But they are...’ she stammered.

Shiloh would not be deterred. ‘Do it!’ he commanded.

Maja left the room to allow her boss to select their battle dress in peace and closed the door behind her. She walked a few paces from the room, took a pen and piece of paper from her pocket, went to her room and searched intently on her tablet for something, before noting it down. Then she made the call to the ‘clean-up crew’. As soon as she finished, and while Shiloh was still selecting their clothes, she snuck down to reception and gave them the piece of paper. ‘Please call this number and give them this message. It's urgent. Thank you!’ she said, as the receptionist nodded.

And then, as quietly as she had appeared, she snuck back up the wooden staircase to her room.

Verity parked her motorbike outside the Jollibee branch at the corner of Aviles and Real Streets and went inside, slinging her backpack from her shoulders so she could carry it with one hand, and entered the gaudily painted Filipino fast food restaurant. She ordered an Aloha Champ burger with fries and iced tea, bagged a table and sat down eating until Don arrived.

She saw his multicab pull up and watched as he leapt down from it, closed and locked the door, ordered his food, spied her and sat down.

Of course, they attracted a few backwards glances from the people around them. Don realised it, as he munched on their signature crispy chicken and spaghetti. ‘They think you’re my daughter.’ he said through a full mouth.

‘No chance. This is the Philippines. They think you are my husband.’ Verity replied, scoffing the last of her fries.

‘I doubt it. They think you’re a lesbian.’ Don parried.

‘Why do they think that?’ Verity asked as she sucked out the last of her iced tea.

‘Hmm... Let me think....’ Don joked with her.

‘Well, let’s see what they think when this caterpillar becomes a butterfly.’ Verity said as she stood up and lifted her backpack off the floor, before she headed to the washroom.

‘Yeah, you do that. You go pupate, or whatever it is you ladies do in there.’ Don called after her.

And that definitely attracted quite a few bemused stares from inquisitive people.

‘What? She’s pupating. Don't you do that here?’ Don told them while chewing on some sweet spaghetti.

Fifteen minutes later, Verity emerged.

Her trainers were gone. She now wore some feminine strappy sandals that showed off the shape of her feet.

Her trousers were gone. As was her leather jacket and black t-shirt. They were replaced by the tiniest of silver mini-dresses, just erring on the side of decency and no more, that showed enough cleavage to excite a hungry baby, but not enough to get her arrested, and showed off her svelte figure.

And her legs! Those legs! In all the years that Don had known her, he had never seen them. Yet they were shapely and hairless and beautiful.

She was even wearing make-up: not too much to look like a circus clown, or someone who was hiding a multitude of sins under a plethora of powder, but just enough to accentuate her features and show them off for what they were.

Don would have wolf-whistled. In his younger days he absolutely would have. But that was not the done thing nowadays.

Verity strutted – positively strutted – back to their table, leather jacket held by a single finger on her shoulder along with a tiny silver clutch bag, backpack held in the other hand. As she catwalked between the formica tables, not a few heads turned (most of them male, and met with slaps and rebukes from their female companions; a few of them female).

She stood in front of Don.

‘What do you think?’ she asked him.

Don cleared his throat. What would be appropriate to say at a time like this? ‘Well, if you were my daughter – which you’re not – then I’d tell you to go back to your room and change, so I guess it's perfect for what we are about to do.’

Not quite what she was hoping for, but Verity would take it. She sat down. ‘Good. Good. Slutty daughter is the look I was going for. ’ she told him, sitting back down carefully so she didn’t flash half the restaurant. ‘I take it backup is in place.’

‘Ah, about that: no, it’s not. It’s just you and me, kid. Rohelio and Roberta are somewhat distracted. And it may have been my fault.’

‘You distracted them? You? When I’m here?’ Verity asked him.

‘Yeah, what can I say? Some people prefer a fine wine to a sexy Prosecco.’ Don grinned.

‘You said I’m a sexy Prosecco!’ Verity exclaimed gleefully. ‘You said I’m a sexy Prosecco! I’m having that. I’m so having that.’

Don quickly slapped her down. ‘Aye, well, you still couldn’t sort that wee dye in your hair that makes you look like you sat too close to a fire, so don’t take it too far.’

Verity brushed her hair with her fingers as if she was proud of it. ‘What can I say? Jollibee doesn’t come with a hair salon.’

‘That’s something to raise with head office.’ Don quipped, before leaning forward and said to her in a low voice. ‘Listen, before we do the deed, I need to give you something.’

‘I hope nobody heard you. They'll be wondering what deed we’ll be doing.’ Verity replied, in a similar low voice.

‘Now who’s the letch!’ Don scolded her. He pulled put a small black velvet jewellery box from his pocket.

‘Look, if you’re going to give me your grandmother’s wedding necklace for luck...’ Verity began.

‘No, it’s this...’ He pulled a white gold chain necklace with a small circular locket at the bottom.

‘Woah! That’s nice!’ Verity cooed.

‘It’s a loan. But it’s not just a necklace. That little locket contains a microphone with some blue teeth in it. In fact, it has lots of blue teeth. So many, in fact, that I should be able to listen to and record whatever anyone says to you while I sit outside in my multicab.’

‘I think you mean Bluetooth, but never mind. Apart from that, yeah, I’m impressed. I'll wear it with pride. Brilliant thinking!’ she commended him. ‘Put it on me, then.’

‘If I do that, they’ll all think I’m a sugar daddy, and believe me, when it comes to things like that, I am thoroughly diabetic.’ Don told her.

‘Come round here and hold my hair up, then.’ Verity told him.

Don complied. He left his seat and stood behind her and held her hair while she clipped the pendant chain in place.

‘It also comes with these.’ Don dipped his hand into his pocket again and pulled out another black velvet jewellery bag. He put two fingers inside and pulled out two white gold stud earrings.

‘Wow! You really know how to spoil a girl.’ Verity jested.

‘Earpieces. Also with blue teeth.’ Don told her. Put these in and I’ll be able to give you instructions if things get scary.’

Verity was only too happy to comply.

Unbeknown to them, a woman in the restaurant took a quick picture and messaged her friend: ‘Tanawa! I think your foreigner nga tigulang has already found someone.’

Once the microphone was in place, Verity donned her jacket, picked up her rucksack and went outside with Don. She threw her rucksack into the cab of his vehicle, they made sure the microphone and earpieces were paired and working and they made their way in convoy to a parking place, opposite Lorenzo’s Cafe and round the corner from the Heritage Hotel. Before they set off, Don instructed her, ‘Remember: the mission is to pass their audition and get the time and place for the sale tomorrow. Nothing more, nothing less. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ she agreed.

‘Nervous?’ he asked.

‘A little.’ she admitted, but that was a big understatement.

‘Just pretend like it’s not your first day as a woman and you’ll be fine.’ Don quipped, and received a playful thump on the arm for his cheek.

They pulled into their parking place, just out of sight of the hotel and left their vehicles.

‘Okay. Jacket off. Game face on. Yell if you need backup.’ Don told her.

She shed her jacket, handed it to him, and told him, ‘Right. I’m ready for this. First time I’ve ever had to entice someone and they happen to be queer. Okay, I can do this.’ she geed herself up.

‘Just take his fluid sexuality and freeze it a bit. Or boil it. Or sautée it. Just... you do you.’ Don told her as she crossed the road and headed towards the corner.

Don plucked a Bluetooth earpod from a pocket, paired it with his phone, perched it in his ear, and somehow decided his best vantage point for this operation was at a table drinking a cool beverage at Lorenzo’s. He ducked inside the cafe and began to take a look at the menu, deciding right away that the nearest he was going to get to something with ‘chino’ in its name would be if someone bought him a fashionable pair of trousers. He didn’t fancy the bubble tea either. A drink with stuff floating in it did not appeal to him.

Right then, Verity spoke into her locket microphone. ‘Eh, Don?’

‘Yes, O great temptress of the east?’ he teased her.

She brushed it aside. ‘I’m so glad I'm wearing sunblock today.’

‘Why?’

‘I haven’t made it inside yet. There’s a line outside the hotel, and it’s hundreds long!’

Sure enough, word seemed to have gotten out that a social media star was recruiting for his overseas businesses, and that the pay was good. No woman in Ormoc, or the surrounding villages, or even further afield from other islands, needed to be told twice. Some had camped out on the Bayfront Plaza. Others had reserved rooms at the hotel. And other hotels.

Verity could not believe what she was seeing. Hundreds, if not thousands, of women, and not a few gay men, were standing outside the Heritage Hotel in Ormoc City, in the fierce afternoon heat and humidity, dressed up to the nines, in the vain hope that a social media influencer, whose only intention was to enslave them, would notice them and hire them.

Just so they could have a better life.

Verity’s heart sank like a stone.

And what was this dreadful creature doing all this time?

Arriving an hour late in an ermine-trimmed pink robe, tight mini dress and kitten heels, taking selfies and boasting of the crowd on social media, before going inside to get the show on the road.

Verity was appalled.

Not so far away, in a warehouse office near the fish market, a stocky, tattooed man, seated at a desk, took a phone call. He wrote the details down on his notepad. He thanked the caller.

He got up from his desk and walked out of his office and into the warehouse. Putting two fingers into his mouth, he whistled above the noise of a distant radio and the clatter of barrels and cleaning equipment being handled by his team.

‘Boys, we have a job.’ he called out.

‘What are we cleaning now?’ Another muscle-bound goon called back with a deflated sigh.

‘No, not a cleaning job. This is a proper job. This one will pay.’ He grinned. ‘Time to tool up. We roll in five minutes.’

He walked back into the office. His men followed him. He unlocked a metal cabinet at the back and swung it open wide. Inside were pistols, shotguns, truncheons, stun guns, gloves and balaclavas.

‘Take your pick, boys.’ He told them, grinning. ‘This is my kind of cleaning.’

The men each grabbed their weapons, pulled the woollen balaclavas over their head, and headed out the back to a white, unmarked Ford Transit van.

Their destination?

Police Station number 1.