Manila was not an appealing place. It had probably never been, but for a man looking over his shoulder for Marcos' thugs it took on a whole new level of unpleasantness laid over the muggy heat, intermittent lighting, noise, crowds and dirt. The reporter felt every hair on his body itch with a prickly, sweaty heat as he waited nervously in the cafe his contact had designated. Had it been another dead end, a fraud, or worse, a trap? Locals, he knew, were more than happy to take dollars from gullible foreigners, and Philippine counterintelligence did not appreciate people snooping around on general principle. He would not be disappeared, of course - you did not disappear American citizens. But that didn't make the prospect of arrest, detention and expulsion any more attractive.
The young man surprised him. He had so quietly and unobtrusively approached the table that the reporter had only noticed him at the last moment. A quick questioning glance - "is the seat taken?" - an imperceptible shake of the head, and he moved on. The paper now lying on the table was a different one. Heart beating in his throat, the reporter forced himself to finish his drink and the chapter of his novel before packing up and moving out. With luck, the exchange would have been worth it. If not, the editor would have his head. The expense account might end up deducted from his pay at the very least.
The documents squashed between the pages of the Manila Times were typed out on thin paper, some of them xeroxed. The haul did not at first sight look very promising. The reporter knew the stpory of the Yamashita treasure that they told - the digging in secret places throughout the Philippines, the involvement of Americans, the questionable role of the Marcos government. But the papers were obviously not American of Philippine. At first sight they looked British. As he turned the page, the reporter found himself sucked into the crinkling pages before him. Some of the treasure had been found - no great surprise there - and siphoned of for American use to purchase weapons for the Contras and Afghan Mujahideen. With trembling hands, he turned pages and pulled yet another copy from the pile, this one a list of meetings between CIA officers and European arms dealers to whom significant parts of Yamashita's gold had been handed over. Czech weapons had been sold through Swiss channels. And then there were the Czech documents - where did those come from? It wasn't his expertise. These needed to go home. Suddenly struck by the realisation what he was carrying, the reporter dialed the number of his travel agency. This was the scoop. This was what people would kill for. Might kill him for. He needed to get out.