Читать книгу False Front - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

Bolan was faced with a problem: ditching the bullet-ridden Cherokee and finding a set of wheels that blended with the local atmosphere of Rio Hondo. He and Charlie Latham were going to look out of place as soon as they stepped out of any vehicle. He didn’t need a stand-out car to announce their presence ahead of time adding to that problem.

Dusk fell over the island of Mindanao as Latham drove past Fort Pilar and Bolan pointed toward an intersecting road. He had studied a map during the flight to the Philippines and knew the road curved around the southeast corner of Zamboanga, eventually merging with General V. Alvarez Street and leading to the heart of the city. By the time they reached the downtown area twilight had become nighttime.

Beggars and gangs of youths began to appear on the streets as they drove. The Executioner was reminded that every city, in every country, in all of the world, had its share of “night people,” men and women who were never seen when the sun was in the sky but emerged from robber’s dens, crack houses and from under rocks as soon as darkness fell. Zamboanga seemed to have more than its share of such people.

But not all of the night people were evil, Bolan knew. Many were simply unfortunate.

The soldier pointed Latham into a left turn onto Lorenzo and more groups of shiftless teenaged boys appeared in front of the stores and other businesses lining both sides of the street. Angry black eyes set in berry-brown faces stared into the Cherokee as they passed. The Executioner could understand their anger. They had been born into a world of poverty and sorrow with little hope of ever escaping. But anger alone changed nothing. Anger put no food on the table. It purchased no medicine for the sick. It didn’t change a dirt-floored house into one with tile or carpet. And now, the loathing in the black teenage eyes that watched the Cherokee pass changed to fury, which Bolan knew would produce tomorrow’s terrorists if men like him didn’t work for change.

Latham had finally had enough silence. “What are we looking for?”

Bolan started to answer, then stopped as the Buick Century Custom they’d been following for the past several blocks pulled over and parked on the street a half block ahead. “That,” he told Latham, nodding toward the windshield. As the driver’s door opened, the Executioner’s eyes turned toward the sidewalk where yet another gang of teenagers leaned slothfully against the plate-glass window of a small café. As he watched, a dark-skinned man wearing a black-and-white checkered shirt stepped away from his cohorts and grinned at the car. The man was incredibly tall by Filipino standards—probably just under six feet. As he swaggered toward the Buick, the driver got out, walked to the sidewalk and handed the taller man a key ring.

“Pull in behind them,” the Executioner said.

Latham followed orders as Bolan studied the man who had just driven up. Actually, calling him a man was stretching the term if not a complete misnomer. He was well under five feet tall and looked to be around thirteen. The taller man took the keys and slapped him on the back with his free hand. The child who had driven the Buick beamed as if he’d just become the new president of the Philippines.

“Well, there’s a rough one to figure out,” Latham said as he halted the Cherokee ten feet behind the Buick.

Bolan chuckled as he opened his door. Car theft was as common as kidnapping on Mindanao with older boys often using the younger ones to actually perpetrate the crimes. Just as in the United States, the younger the criminal, the more likely he would get a light sentence or get off altogether, if caught. Now, as the Executioner stepped out and up onto the curb he saw the tall man, the driver, and half a dozen other Filipino youths turn his way.

Although smiles appeared on many of the faces, the young men didn’t look happy. Their expressions were more like what could be expected on the face of a wolf upon spying a particularly large sheep.

Bolan could hear low chatter among the men as he walked forward. Here and there, he heard a snicker as some of the younger ones pointed at him and spoke. Behind him, the Executioner heard Latham exit the Cherokee, the Texan’s sandals flapping on the pavement with each step he took.

“Normally I’d say stopping to chat with these guys wasn’t the smartest idea in the world,” came the Texas drawl behind the Executioner. “Of course, it’s all in your point of view, I guess. Compared to what we just finished doing, it pretty much pales by comparison.”

The voices were clear now but in a dialect unfamiliar to the Executioner. Stopping five feet from the man in the checkered shirt, Bolan turned to Latham as the Texan fell in at his side. “You understand them?” he asked.

Latham shook his head. “They’re Samal,” he said. “One of the indigenous Manobo tribes. Got their own dialect.”

“They speak Tagalog, too?” Bolan asked.

“I’d imagine,” Latham said. He pulled out his can of tobacco, opened it, snaked his tongue inside then stuffed the can back in his pocket. With a smile on his face, he looked at the young men in front of him and spit out a fast mouthful of the national language. Bolan caught only the word “Pilipino.”

The man in the checkered shirt smirked, shrugged and held out his hands, palms up. The rest of the Filipino gang-bangers laughed.

“I asked him to switch languages. He’s acting like he doesn’t understand me,” Latham said.

“But he does,” Bolan said.

“Hell, yes, he does. He’s just got to screw with us a little to save face in front of his boys.” He sighed quietly. “It’s all part of the game.” Pausing again, he turned slightly toward Bolan. “You do realize that they won’t be able to resist trying to rob a couple of Yanks like us, don’t you?”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Bolan said.

“Yeah, well….” Latham chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. “Okay, what do you want me to tell them next?”

Bolan looked the tall leader in the eye and grinned. “Tell him we’d like to trade cars with him. The Cherokee for the Buick he just stole.”

“Oh, that’ll go over big, I’m sure.” Latham cut loose with another flurry of undecipherable words.

The man in the checkered shirt leaned to the side and looked at the bullet holes in the Cherokee. When he answered this time, he did so in Tagalog. Whatever he said brought riots of laughter from the others.

Bolan glanced to his side.

“It’s a little hard to translate directly,” Latham said. “But, loosely, he said the Cherokee has more holes in it than your father’s prophylactic must have had.”

The Executioner chuckled politely. But he was quickly growing weary of this whole game. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a large roll of paper money. “Tell him we’ll throw in a few extra pesos to cover the holes.”

The eyes of the tall leader fell on the money and his smile turned predatory again. Still staring at the Executioner’s hand, he spoke again, pointing to the alley behind him.

“Do I need to translate that?” Latham asked. “He wants to go—”

“He wants to do the deal in the alley.” Bolan shoved the money back into his pocket. “Tell him that’s fine.”

Latham spoke, then waved his hand toward the alley. The tall leader and the others fell in around Bolan and Latham, escorting them toward the dark opening between the buildings. The dialogue between the young men went back to the Samal dialect and with it came the return of the snickering. In the shadowy light from the overhead streetlight, Bolan could see that each and every one of them believed they had just met the two stupidest Americans who had ever been born. Now, they were leading the sheep to slaughter.

The Executioner walked calmly on as the tall man in the checkered shirt reached out with his left arm and took Bolan’s, much as one might do to help an old lady across the street. He seemed to have no perception whatsoever that he has herding not a sheep but a sheepdog.

Twenty feet into the alley, the group halted. Dim light filtered in from the sidewalk and high above them on the roof to Bolan’s right a spotlight brightened the barred-and-locked back door to the building. Still holding the Executioner’s arm with one hand, a flash of silver suddenly appeared in the gang leader’s other hand. What little light was available seemed to be drawn directly to the object, which sparkled brightly as it began to swing through the air accompanied by a series of clicks and snaps.

Bolan would have recognized the sounds even if he hadn’t seen the knife. Although it had originated in the Philippine Islands, the balisong had become a worldwide weapon and various versions were now manufactured all over the planet. He was about to reach out to grab the gang leader’s wrist when the man suddenly dropped his arm and stepped back.

The balisong began to dance through the air, making circles, squares and cutting figure eights. The man holding the knife stepped under the spotlight in front of the alley door. Amid a chorus of oohs and ahs of awe and delight from his young minions, he continued to open and close the wings of the butterfly knife.

“Want to just shoot ’em?” Latham whispered. “Of course it’d be sad to see so much worthless talent go to waste.”

Bolan ignored him, watching silently as the leader finally finished, clamped the handles together in his fist and holding the balisong threateningly out in front of him.

“Does this mean the show’s over?” Bolan asked.

He was a little surprised when the man in the checkered shirt nodded. “Unless you would like to become part of it,” he said in overly dramatic, heavily accented English. The wolverine grin had returned to his face and, standing beneath the spotlight, he actually looked more like an actor on stage than a man with a knife in the middle of a robbery.

“Excellent grammar,” Latham chimed in. “And here I was wasting all that time translating.”

“We will take the money and both cars,” said the man in the checkered shirt. “If you are lucky, we will let you two leave with your lives.” He opened and closed the balisong one final time for effect. “Do you feel lucky, punk? Well, do you?”

“Oh, man,” Latham said. One hand shot up to his face to cover his eyes. “This is getting really embarrassing now.” He turned to Bolan. “Everybody in the Philippines loves movies, but they get them pretty late.”

Bolan had had enough of the whole Bruce-Lee-Dirty-Harry show. With one smooth movement he swept the tail of his chambray shirt back past the Desert Eagle, pulled the big .44 Magnum pistol from his belt and stepped forward. Using the heavy weapon as a club, he brought the barrel down across the wrist holding the balisong. A sharp, snapping, almost nauseating crack of bone filled the alleyway as the gleaming blade flew from the gang-banger’s hand to clatter onto the ground.

The Executioner jammed the bore of the big .44 into the man’s forehead. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Latham had drawn his Browning. The red laser-dot moved back and forth from chest to chest as the Texan covered the rest of the gang.

Bolan turned to face the other men. “My turn on stage,” he said.

Somewhere along the way the wolfish smile had disappeared and now the man in the checkered shirt looked like a boa constrictor with an elephant caught in his throat. He nodded slowly.

“Nothing fancy on my part,” Bolan said. “Just give me the keys to the Buick. And move slowly. Very, very slowly.” He pressed the Desert Eagle into the man’s face a little harder to serve as an exclamation point at the end of the sentence.

The gangster got the message. His hand moved into the pocket of his dirty blue jeans with the speed of a stoned sloth. The key ring came out and he extended it timidly forward. Bolan took the keys with his free hand and dropped them into his pocket.

“Charlie, you got the keys to the Cherokee?”

He felt the Texan move in to his side. A second later Latham’s hand dropped the keys into the breast pocket of the black-and-white checkered shirt.

“A wise businessman once told me that the best deals are the ones where both parties walk away happy,” the Executioner said, still holding the .44 between the gang leader’s eyebrows. “So. Are you happy?”

The man in the checkered shirt nodded slowly. The barrel of the Desert Eagle moved up to the man’s hairline, down to the bridge of his nose, then up again.

“Good,” Bolan said. “I’m happy, too.” Quickly he stepped away from the leader and turned to the rest of the young men, waving them toward the wall as he and Latham backed out of the alley.

After transferring their possessions from the Cherokee, they were driving away from downtown Zamboanga with Bolan behind the wheel of the Buick Century Custom.

THE NIGHT HAD DARKENED even more by the time they returned to spot where they’d been attacked on the road. The Chevy and Ford still stood where they’d been left, the dead drivers appearing to be engaged in an across-the-road conversation. The moon had disappeared behind the clouds and Bolan drove on headlights alone.

Bolan let up on the accelerator, slowing the Buick as they entered the outskirts of Rio Hondo. Latham sat silently next to him as they drove past a long row of stilt houses built out from the shore over the water. According to intel, there were forty-six of the dwellings crammed so close together that they almost appeared to be one long structure. Candido Subing’s uncle—Mario Subing—lived in one of the rickety shanties near the center. While neither Stony Man Farm nor the CIA believed Mario was directly involved with the Tigers himself, the old man was perfectly willing to harbor his nephew. His was the twenty-first stilt house from the edge of town. Bolan counted the dilapidated dwellings as they passed.

Uncle Mario’s place looked no different than any of the other raised dwellings as it blurred into the rest of the long row in the Buick’s rearview mirror. The Executioner knew he’d have to count again when he returned later that night.

The rumor of the “big-time strike” in the U.S. floated through Bolan’s mind again. And again, he couldn’t see how such a small organization could pull off such an expensive enterprise. If there was such an operation in motion, the Tigers had to be linked up with some other group.

A half dozen elderly men in front of what appeared to be a café were the only ones who seemed to take notice of the Buick as they drove through the village. Bolan kept his eyes on the mosque to his left, finally turning off the asphalt highway and cutting back inland on a gravel road. Mentally he mapped the layout of the village for future reference, noting that behind the houses across the road from the stilt dwellings lay jungle and the most direct foot path between the mosque and Mario Subing’s place would be to cut through the thick leaves and vines. The jungle would also provide even better cover than the darkness for much of their approach. There might even be a spot inside the trees where they could set up surveillance.

The Executioner passed a small brown man and woman holding hands as they walked away from the mosque. They stared at the Buick, an unfamiliar car in the small settlement. That was the primary drawback to his plan—the car. Even if the Rio Hondans didn’t look inside the Buick and see the light-skinned men they were bound to take notice of any unknown vehicles that entered the village. The best plan was to find a parking place as close to the jungle as possible, then get out of the car and into the trees before they were spotted.

The Buick crunched over the gravel toward the towering sphere atop the mosque. If they were spotted, they’d do their best to pass themselves off as lost tourists. But that story was so thin it could have been anorexic. Latham had informed him that all of the tourist manuals and western government travel advisories discouraged visitors from visiting Rio Hondo during the day and just flat-out told them they’d be out of their minds to be in such an area after the sun went down. There was just too much crime. Visitors were encouraged to stick close to their lodgings from dusk until dawn.

Charlie Latham had to be thinking along the same lines because as the Executioner drove on he pulled the straw cowboy hat from his head and dropped it on the floor at his feet. Not knowing whether the mosque would be open when they arrived, they had nevertheless been aware of the fact that wearing shorts in the area would definitely be frowned on by Islamic leaders. So they had stopped along the road soon after acquiring the Buick and Latham now wore a faded pair of denim jeans he’d pulled out of the rear of the Cherokee. A well-worn pair of Nike running shoes had replaced his flipping and flopping sandals.

The gravel road led into a parking lot where several other vehicles already stood. Lights could be seen through the mosque windows. Bolan pulled the Buick quickly between two other cars, hoping they might serve as at least partial camouflage. Word that an unknown car was in Rio Hondo would travel fast enough. He didn’t see any sense in hurrying it up any faster than he had to.

The Executioner cut the engine and killed the headlights. He estimated them to be roughly half a mile from the stilt houses.

Through an open door leading into the mosque Bolan could see several men kneeling in prayer. As he and Latham quietly exited the car, he saw the men rise to their feet and begin talking with one another. That meant that they’d be leaving in a few more minutes, returning to the parking lot to get into their vehicles and go home for the night.

Which, in turn, meant Bolan and Latham needed to hit the jungle even faster than he’d thought.

Bolan opened the car door and closed it quietly behind him, Latham doing the same on his side. Crouching slightly, the two men jogged away from the mosque. The Executioner’s eyes swept left and right, but he saw no one looking back at him. As soon as they reached the trees they ducked inside, then turned to peer back out through the foliage.

The men who had been at their prayers were now leaving. Some of them took off on foot, others walked toward the parking lot. Two of the men stopped at the Buick, looking it up and down. Thought he was too far away to hear their words, the Executioner saw their lips moving and their arms waving up and down in animated conversation. He knew the news was about to spread throughout the village; how fast it went from house to house depended upon just how unique the sight of an unknown vehicle happened to be. But there was no reason to worry about that now. He would deal with whatever consequences the Buick brought when, and if, he encountered them.

Bolan motioned to Latham to follow, then took off through the jungle. The Texan had kept two rusty-but-shaving-sharp machetes in the Cherokee, which they now used to cut their way through the heavy growth toward the sea. Fifteen yards into the trees, they suddenly found themselves intersecting with a well-traveled footpath and halted in their tracks.

For a moment the Executioner considered taking the path, for it no doubt led in the direction he was headed. But the fact that it was obviously often used warned him away. He didn’t want to encounter any innocent Rio Hondans who might, regardless of their good intentions, tell the rest of the town that there were Yankees hiding in the leaves and vines.

Backing up, Bolan and Latham continued to cut their own route toward the highway.

The moon was still hidden in the sky when they finally reached the houses across the road from the stilt shacks. Peering through the leaves, Bolan could see the backsides of the crudely built sheds, chicken coops and shabby homes. Dropping their machetes, they darted from the jungle into the darkness, crouching as they made their way from building to building, stopping to check for curious eyes each time they reached new concealment.

It took twenty minutes to reach the rear of a splintering outdoor toilet the Executioner estimated to be halfway down the row of stilt houses across the road. Peering around the edge of the foul-smelling outhouse, he stared between two houses in front of him. The clouds had moved and by the dim light of a quarter moon he could just make out the shadowy stilt structures on the other side of the highway.

The Executioner stared at the ramshackle structures. He had decided that the best course of action was to wait on Subing, then tail him back to the hostages when he left his uncle’s house. Of course there was no guarantee the terrorist leader would even show up this night and there was every chance in the world that as daybreak neared he and Latham would have to sneak back to their vehicle and find a place to hide out until tomorrow night. If that happened, he would give the plan one more night. And if Subing still failed to appear, he would interrogate the man’s uncle.

It wasn’t an idea the Executioner relished, Mario Subing was reported to be an old man. But when he weighed one man against the lives of the hostages and all of the other innocents the Liberty Tigers would kill if allowed to go unchecked, a little fright put into the heart of an octogenarian didn’t seem all that cruel.

Turning to Latham, he kept his voice low. “Stay here. There’s no sense in both of us going.”

“I don’t mind—”

The Executioner shook his head. “I know you don’t mind going. There’s just no sense in both of us taking the chance of being seen. Two men hiding in the dark are twice as likely to be spotted as one.”

Latham obviously didn’t like the idea of staying back, but he was smart enough to see the logic behind the Executioner’s order. He nodded in the darkness.

Bolan stole forward again, keeping low and thankful that they’d encountered none of the stray dogs he’d seen earlier. Barks and a few growls had sounded in the distance as they’d moved through the jungle but they had been the common sounds all dogs made at night, not the warning alerts wild canines sent their prey when they were on the hunt.

Reaching the side of the residence directly in front of the outhouse, the Executioner slid his back along the wall toward a window. Dim light flickered from the screenless, shutterless opening and when he reached it he dropped to his knees. Risking a quick glance over the windowsill, his eyes took in the candle flame dancing on the wooden table inside. Mosquito nets hung over moldy bare mattresses on the packed-earth floor. Six small children huddled in sleep on one of the threadbare beds. A man and a woman, looking far older than they could have possibly been if these children had come from their loins, sat listlessly at the table, staring silently off into space.

Bolan rose to his feet as soon as he’d passed the window and crept to the front corner of the house. Now the shoreline was more visible, and he saw that he was far past the center of the stilt village. Light—open candles and a few lanterns—glowed from some of the structures, glimmering off the water below. Others stilt houses stood in darkness, looking as dead as the faces of the man and woman the Executioner had just seen through the window.

Bolan started at the end and counted to twenty-one. A lantern hung from the porch of Mario Subing’s house and through the window behind it he could see what looked like the silhouette of a man.

Turning back to where he’d left Latham, the Executioner ducked past the window and hurried back to the outhouse. Silently he pointed in the direction from which he’d just come, waited until he saw Latham’s nod of acknowledgment, then crept back along the houses. A few seconds later he dropped to one knee again and looked out between the houses. Across the asphalt road he saw the same lantern. And the same silhouette still sat in the shadows at the window. But now Subing was looking outward into the darkness.

Waiting for his nephew? Maybe.

The Executioner turned back to Latham. “I’m going closer again,” he whispered. “There may be another way into the house we can’t see. Subing could slip in and out of the house and we’d never know.”

Latham shrugged. “And I suppose you want me to stay here again,” he said in a voice that made it clear he would prefer moving up with the Executioner.

“Right,” the Executioner whispered. “Cover our rear and flanks.” Without another word he turned away from the Texan and crept forward.

Another house; another side window in the same place. But this window was dark. The Executioner dropped to all fours anyway, staying below the line of sight in case anyone inside might still be awake and watching. But the deep snores that drifted through the opening told him that wasn’t the case. Passing the window, he stopped just short of the front of the house and dropped to one knee. Leaning against the splintered boards at his side, he settled in to study the stilt house across the road.

Not all of Rio Hondo was asleep yet and in the shadows and flickering lights of the mounted candles and lanterns the Executioner saw men, women and children moving back and forth between the structures that stood precariously above the water.

Three doors down from Mario’s, the Executioner watched the walkway dip, bounce and creak under the weight of several children as they played back and forth along the ramps. Their area was better lit than most of the poverty-level stilt houses with both candles and lanterns hanging from wires suspended from the roofs. Laugher and an occasional scream met the Executioner’s ears.

As soon as he was certain he’d not been seen, Bolan lowered himself into a sitting position, his back against the wall of the house. The snoring, punctuated by an occasional cough, continued to float through the window, reassuring him that the occupants had no knowledge of his presence a mere five feet or so from where they slept.

As he waited, Bolan’s mind drifted back to the men who had exited the mosque and stopped to examine the Buick. Depending on exactly who they were, how they reacted and what else they might have to do tonight, they’d either pass the car off lightly or start asking questions. Worst-case scenario would be that they smelled trouble and would begin scouring the village for whoever had parked it. And in a town this small—even in the dark—it wouldn’t take long for them to find Bolan and Latham.

The Executioner silently prayed that wouldn’t happen. He had no desire to injure innocent men who would think they were simply protecting their town from outsiders. But there was little he could do to forestall that situation at this point. If it happened, it happened. As he had always done, he would deal with any specific trouble that came up when it came up.

THE MAN IN THE NEW custom-tailored Italian suit caught a glimpse of himself as he opened the glass door of the restaurant. The suit looked good on him, he decided. Made him look slimmer. Not that slim was anything he put much stock in. The fact was, he had grown up as a poor hungry child and slim had been unavoidable. He considered the corpulence he had achieved during the past twenty years as a sign of his success, and he never intended to be hungry again.

The maître d’ in the black tuxedo greeted him as soon as he stepped inside. “Good evening, Mr. Mikelsson,” he said with the broad grin of a man who knew he would receive a large tip before the night ended.

“Good evening to you, Hugo,” Lars Mikelsson responded, following the maître d’.

As the man held his chair out for him, Mikelsson said, “I am expecting a few calls, Hugo. Please notify me immediately.” Silently he hoped the calls would come between courses. Better yet, not until he had finished eating altogether.

“Of course, Mr. Mikelsson,” Hugo replied, then hurried away.

Mikelsson had barely sipped the beer a waiter had automatically placed in front of him before Hugo reappeared. “Sir, your call is here.”

The fat man pushed himself laboriously up from the chair and followed Hugo through the tables to a short hallway, then into an office. Behind the desk sat the restaurant owner. He rose quickly to his feet without needing to be told, exiting the office with his employee. Mikelsson smiled to himself. The restaurant owner had been provided with a free, state-of-the-art, security system. It had been his payment for allowing the fat man to take certain calls in his office. And to ask no questions about them.

A red light was blinking on the telephone on the desk. The fat man in the new suit lifted the receiver and pressed the button next to it. “Yes?” he said into the phone.

“Nothing has changed, Mr. Mikelsson,” said the voice on the other end, which he immediately recognized. “The union didn’t accept the offer.”

A slow boil of anger started in Mikelsson’s belly. More and more, it seemed these days, his legitimate business enterprises such as the automobile and aircraft industries not only bored but irritated him. His mood wasn’t helped by the fact that he was hungry. “Then let them wait,” he said in carefully controlled words. “If they don’t care to build automobiles for what I pay them, let them stay home in their pathetic little hovels. We will see who goes bankrupt first, them or me.” Without waiting for an answer he slammed down the receiver. It rang again before Mikelsson could get up from his chair.

“Hello,” Mikelsson said, sounding irritated.

“Mikelsson.”

“Candido?”

“Yes,” the voice on the other end said in Arabic.

“I assume you are in Israel, and all is well?” Mikelsson asked bluntly in the same language.

“All is well,” Candido said. “Our martyr is ready to enter the synagogue.”

Your martyr, not mine, you fool, Mikelsson thought. “Excellent. How far away are you?”

“Three blocks. You will be able to hear it,” Subing stated.

“How long will it be?”

“One, maybe two minutes at most.”

“Then I will wait,” Mikelsson said, his pulse beginning to race. “I like hearing them.” Seconds later he heard the explosion on the other end of the line.

“Did you hear it?” Subing asked excitedly.

“Yes.”

“I will call you as soon as I return, so you will know where I am.” Subing paused and the excitement returned to his voice. “In case everything is in place in America.”

“I have told you,” Mikelsson said, “the project in the United States is not yet ready. The ship will not even arrive until tomorrow.”

“I will be ready,” Subing said. “And, again, I will call you as soon as I return home.”

The fat man hung up the phone, struggled to his feet and started out of the office, toward the buffet line. He smiled. “Yes, call me, little brown man,” he said under his breath to himself. “But I will get word of your return to the Philippines and every other move you make, before you even reach a phone.”