Trade Winds

  About this story

  This story features John Fairchild from the Clarke and Fairchild series of political thrillers of which the first, Reborn, has recently been published. Trade Winds takes place before Reborn, in which Clarke and Fairchild meet. It’s set in the Philippines and is a typical episode in the life of the enigmatic John Fairchild showing how he operates, who his friends are - and aren't - and what motivates him to operate in the dangerous and morally murky world of international spycraft.

  Trade Winds

  T.M. Parris

  A Clarke and Fairchild Short Story

  Available exclusively to members of the Clarke and Fairchild Readers’ Club

  The camp

  The jungle comes down to the water’s edge, leaving only a strip of slippery boulders leading into the sea. We can’t see the boat. Cesar tries to phone but gets no answer and swears. In our sandals we slither and slide as we try to move along the shoreline in the dark. Our rifles are slung awkwardly across our backs as we use hands and feet to clamber. My backpack straps chafe through my sweat-soaked T-shirt. Mud coats my feet and ankles. My muscles ache. My stomach groans. I wish I were stronger, like the village men, like Cesar who scales the rocks evenly like a native creature of the jungle. He moves on ahead now, phone clasped to his bushy beard, talking. Finally he has made contact with the boat. He stops, listens, turns, beckons us on. We keep going, stumbling along as best we can.

  This doesn’t feel like war. But it is.

  Someone shouts. We stop and turn. He’s pointing out to sea. Between the swell appears a dancing orange flame, leaching a column of smoke into the dark sky.

  “The boat! The boat’s on fire!” I don’t know which of us says it. Over the water we hear frenzied shouting. Figures silhouetted against the orange light move about with sharp gestures.

  “Come on! Come on!” Cesar has come back for us as we stand mesmerised. “The boat can’t land here, can it? Adel!” I jump forward when he shouts my name, and slip on a rock. “Clumsy oaf! Move! Get to the beach!”

  The rocks turn into gravelly sand. The boat gradually converges with us, disappearing and reappearing in the waves. We wade and congregate on it, up to the waist in water. The fire has been doused. Smoke pours up and out, getting into our throats and eyes. The crew is gabbling all at once to Cesar about the fire, a diesel can that caught ash from a cigarette end. He grunts his disapproval then orders them silent.

  We pull the boat to shore and peer inside. We haven’t seen the captives before. They were in a different camp but had to be moved because it was spotted. They stare up at us, hands bound. The boat grounds and tips to the side. The crew pull them to their feet and push them forward to the bow. Unsteady and timid, their white skin glows in the moonlight. They’re old. Old and frail. One of them is a woman. We all stare as they try to climb out of the boat with their hands tied.

  “Well, get them out! Pull them out if they can’t manage it!” We surge forward on Cesar’s cry and lift them out. I carry the woman under her arms. She is fleshy and heavy, and smells very faintly of flowers. Her skin is saggy and veined, delicate. We set her down and she looks around, breathing rapidly. Her foot turns as she steps, and she falls forward onto her face with a shriek.

  “Yvonne!” The man falls to his knees next to her. “Ça va? Tu es blessée?” He leans forward to help her but his hands are tied. We stoop to lift her up so that she is sitting. Her cheek is cut on the gravel, a small scratch, oozing blood. She looks at the man and her face is distorted with sobs. He looks back at her, his eyes full of panic.

  We walk them to the camp we have prepared for them. They are slow and keep tripping in the dark. Cesar has ordered silence and the only sound is the white man’s laboured breathing and Yvonne’s little gasp every time she stumbles or gets caught up on the vegetation. It’s almost light by the time we arrive. The hostages have a tent with a canvas roof and some bedding. We’re told to watch them all the time, but all they can do is sink down and sleep. The rest of us sleep in the open, or amongst the bush.

  I watch the prisoners when it’s my turn and I think about what Ismael would say. We must fight, and to fight we must arm ourselves, and to arm ourselves we need money. The Quran is clear on this, Ismael would say. It will not be easy. You will need to be determined. But you will have your reward.

  It rains. I try to find shelter but the drips always soak through, turning everything cold and wet. I watch the hostages as they sleep, until others take over the guard. When I leave, the prisoners are lying side by side, the man’s hand cradling the woman’s head. She is asleep, he is not.

  I go into the jungle to pray.

  Trade Winds Cafe, Manila

  These Trade Winds Cafes are everywhere. The Manila one opened five, six years ago, I guess. It’s been a real hit, the place to be seen. Can’t say I’m a huge fan. Bamboo panelling, woven chairs, weird animal-shaped wooden candle holders, things stuck to the ceiling that look like boomerangs. Pictures of ships on the walls. Loads of pictures of ships. You know, ships, trade winds, south east Asia, islands, spices, ya-di-ya. We get it, we really do.

  I make straight for the cocktail bar. Fairchild knows that’s where I’ll be. He’s already here when I arrive. He probably cased the joint for an hour first, after checking he wasn’t being followed and recruiting half the kitchen staff on his way in. Me, I jumped in a cab. From the US base it’s a slow ride, but cheap. Being CIA I’m not really military any more, but they let me hang around. It’s good for relations.

  “Hey, Fairchild!” I pat him on the back and sit down opposite. It’s always Fairchild. Never John. No idea why.

  “Evening, Zack. What can I get you?”

  “Thanks, buddy!” The cocktail menu runs to three pages. I go for a Tropical Storm, some kind of large rum thing. Fairchild’s on the G&T as usual. For someone who hates his home country with such a passion, he can be very British.

  “So what happened in Jordan then?” I ask. “One second you were there, the next no sign of you. I don’t remember you saying goodbye.”

  “I had to go. I had a lead.”

  “I see. And did the lead lead anywhere?”

  “As it happens, no. But it sounded promising.”

  I sigh. All of Fairchild’s leads sound promising. But none of them have gotten him anywhere except up a blind alley. And some of those blind alleys are not nice places. I’m always a little surprised, whenever I see him, that he’s still alive. Doesn’t help that he often behaves like he’s indifferent to his own survival.

  “Don’t you think it’s time to give up on all this, Fairchild? Running round the world, trying to solve a thirty-year-old mystery? You’d have got to the bottom of it by now, wouldn’t you, if you were going to? I mean, just think how much simpler life would be.”

  Fairchild gazes at me blandly. “Simpler? Well, simple is good, I suppose.” He sips his drink.

  I sigh again. “Look, Fairchild. It’s really tough that your parents disappeared when you were ten years old.” I give him my best caring look. “I mean, that was difficult for you. I get that. And in an ideal world, you’d know what happened.”

  One eyebrow has gone up. That’s never good. “In an ideal world, you mean, someone at MI6 might have the decency to fill me in on what my parents were doing in their employ at the time of their disappearance, and who was responsible?”

  “Yeah. But they’re not going to tell you. Are they? It was over thirty years ago.”

  “That doesn’t mean,” says Fairchild, “that I’m not going to find out.”

  “But this, this thing you do, d’you really think it’s going to work, asking everyone you meet the world over if they happened to be in Vienna in 1980 and did they notice anything?”

&n
bsp; “You know full well that’s not what I do, Zack.” The atmosphere has gone a little icy. I should know better by now than to question him on this. But then my drink arrives. Brought over by the manager. They know each other. That figures. His name’s Raul, apparently. He and Fairchild chat for a while in Tagalog or whatever local language he feels like slipping into today. My cocktail is very long and very brown. There’s a boat floating in it. An actual boat. In my actual cocktail. They literally do want to ram this theme down people’s throats.

  Eventually Raul wanders off to glad-hand some other Manila movers and shakers. I’ve managed to remove the boat from my drink with the aid of a cocktail umbrella. “Interesting little chat?” I ask.

  “There’s always something to talk about during typhoon season. Some people are forecasting the next one will reach Manila, but the authorities are insisting it will disperse out east as usual.”

  “Oh, okay. So if we enjoy city life we’d better make the most of it, then. While we still have a city.”

  He sits back. “So, Zack. Did you want to see me to give me advice about my lifestyle, or was there something you wanted?”

  And there was me thinking the atmosphere had thawed a little. “I may have a little job for you, if you’re interested.” He just waits. “Ok, well. You know the situation in the south of the Philippines. Muslim separatists embedded across Mindanao province, demanding their own state, ya-di-ya.”

  Fairchild looks amused. “That’s been an issue for some time. Since about 1898, I believe. Didn’t the USA fail to defeat the separatists when the Philippines was an American colony?”

  Trust Fairchild to know actual dates. “Yeah, well, it’s not getting any better despite the Filipino government granting the region autonomy. It’s not enough, they say, or some of them anyway. The so-called freedom fighters are persistent and know how to squirrel themselves away in the jungle and across all those thousands of tiny islands in the Sulu archipelago. They’re armed to the jaws and a menace to peace and stability, despite the massive Filipino national guard presence.”

  “That sounds like a difficulty for Manila to grapple with. What’s the USA’s interest all of a sudden? I can’t see your military bases here being threatened by Mindanao separatists.”

  “Because it’s not just Mindanao. They’re getting support internationally. Money, guns, training. From Saudi, from cells in Pakistan and Indonesia. We got evidence of links with other Muslim separatist movements, the Pattani in southern Thailand, the Rohingya in Myanmar. We’re pushing back on IS in Syria and Iraq and they’re refocusing here instead. It’s becoming a new Islamic State. They’re calling for an Islamic caliphate, governed by sharia law, for all Muslims in Asia. That’s not good, Fairchild. A third of the world’s Muslims live in South East Asia. As I’m sure you know.”

  “Of course I know. Islamic fundamentalism’s been on the rise in this region for years. Wasn’t there a pre-9/11 plot to blow up passenger planes, run out of the Philippines?”

  “Yeah, so it’s important. And it’s not going away.”

  “And how do you anticipate me being involved?”

  I take a sip of Tropical Storm. It’s kind of like maple syrup with a suggestion of alcohol. “A group down there has taken a couple of hostages. A French couple. Spirited them away in the middle of the night to some island. They take hostages all the time, of course. Usually local people who get released on payment of a small fee. One of the ways they finance themselves. Western hostages get a little more attention.”

  “I haven’t seen anything about a kidnapping. Is this recent?”

  “Very. We’re waiting for the video upload to social media, the proof of life, the ransom demand. It’ll go up as soon as they figure out who their hostages are. And that’s the thing.”

  Fairchild is watching me, taking it all in. “So who are they?”

  “Name of Lucien and Yvonne Segal. They were owners of a highly successful business supplying electronics to the automobile industry.”

  “Were?”

  “Yeah, were. They recently sold their business to a huge – I mean, huge – car manufacturing multinational. They walked away from the deal with hundreds of millions of euros, intended for a luxurious retirement, which they decided to kick off with a stay at a five-star resort on Palawan, from where they were lifted. The deal isn’t a secret. Anyone can find this out, even island-hopping guerrillas. If they can get the internet.”

  “So our Islamists have hit the jackpot?”

  “They’ll be demanding some massive sum, if they have any financial sense. Thing is, if this were an American couple, the doting family back home would be getting a visit from some folks in suits about now, explaining that if a single cent of ransom money reaches these guys from the USA, those responsible would face a serious charge of funding a terrorist organisation. You Europeans, however, don’t all feel the same way about ransom payments. However, when these hundreds of millions get spent on weapons and soldiers and recruitment networks and jihadist training facilities, you think the victims are all gonna be liberal western Europeans?”

  “I see. So this is considered an issue for American security, even though the hostages are French?”

  “Got it in one. What we want to do is make sure this couple gets sprung before anyone even thinks of making a payment. We’re very keen for that to happen.”

  “Keen enough not to leave it to the Filipino armed forces to carry out a rescue?”

  I make an effort to be restrained. “Of course, we talk with our Filipino allies. But let’s just say we’d prefer to use our own resources. We got eyes and ears in the region. We can scramble a Special Ops team from our base in Mindanao.”

  “Great. So what do you need me for?”

  “Well, when I say we got eyes and ears…” I break off to finish my drink, sucking up the last sugary liquid and leaving only a glass full of ice cubes.

  “Want another one?”

  “Yeah, but just the rum this time. None of that other stuff.”

  Fairchild signals but Raul is chatting to a group of Chinese men in suits now. A woman shimmies over, takes the order and goes. Quick and easy. It’s clear who does the real work in this place.

  “You don’t know where they are, do you?” Fairchild is looking at me again.

  “Well, we did. A drone pass identified a camp of some sort. But by the time our people got to it on foot, it was gone. They move around at the slightest hint of trouble. They can island-hop, they have dozens of people in their pay to get them to discreet places. Some of these guerrillas have been living in these jungles for twenty years.”

  “You want me to find the camp?”

  “Well, you can use your network, Fairchild. You know people here in Manila, people down in Davao. They can put you in touch with locals who will talk to you. People trust you, you can blend in, speak the lingo, be subtle. Our people there, no disrespect to them, but subtle they ain’t. They won’t leave the base without hauling a ton of weaponry on their person. Or let anyone else.”

  The lady comes back with the drinks. Nice friendly smile. But not too friendly. You wouldn’t get ideas or anything. Fairchild is watching me.

  “What do you think of this place?” he asks.

  “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  I shrug. “Looks like a film set to me. Got its uses, I guess. They got them all over now. People seem to like it. Interesting people, if you know what I mean.”

  The woman leaves. “So,” he asks, “what do you want me to do once I’ve found the camp? Are you expecting me to rescue these captives single-handedly?”

  “Nope. Just tell us where it is. I’ll give you a tracker. Plant it on someone so we can keep tabs if they move. Then get the hell out and leave it to us. Easy, huh?”

  Fairchild smiles. “If it were easy, you’d have done it yourselves.”

  I raise my palms. “What can I say? You’re good at what you do, Fairchild. That’s
why we keep meeting like this. Only, you’ll need to do this right now, okay? Drop everything and get down there. Any time now they’ll be posting their ransom demands and folks will start screaming their heads off.”

  He circles his glass in the air, thinking. Then he grabs a pen from his pocket and a napkin, writes down a sum of money and passes it to me.

  I look at it. “That’s pesos, right?”

  “Nope. Your US dollars, please. You know how and where. Half now and half when it’s done. I’ll need all the intel you have on this group, where they come from, how they formed, what they’ve done before. And everything on the couple. Age, weight, health, family, financial history, shoe size, sexual preferences…”

  “Okay, okay.” I’m still staring at the napkin. “Your fees sure have gone up, Fairchild.”

  He shrugs. “Go somewhere else if you don’t like them.”

  “But this is to save lives, John! Disrupting terrorism, stopping the bad guys. Isn’t that worthwhile in itself? Besides, you don’t need money, with all these businesses you own everywhere.”

  “If you want to disrupt terrorism,” he says, “look at what’s making angry young men so easy to radicalise in the first place. Look around us, Zack. Metro Manila, all the shopping malls and high rises. How much benefit are they seeing on these islands, in these villages? Nothing, until it looks like it might affect someone here. But by then it’s too late.”

  “Hey, that’s not us! You know what these places are like, Fairchild. Remember Ferdinand Marcos? His wife with the shoes? Of course money doesn’t get to the villages. You got people at the top who don’t care about anything except lining their own pockets. Doesn’t make it easy, but what can you do?”

  I look at the napkin and sigh. “I suppose I can get this signed off.” I set light to it with the candle and watch it all burn. “Of course, if you screw up and get kidnapped yourself, you’ll get no help from us.”

  “Naturally,” says Fairchild. “That goes without saying.”