The Navidad Incident (27 page)

The truth is, that's no place for a president; the politician who presents too visible a profile there will be accused of canvassing and see his populist ploy backfire. Sacred powers and secular authority should keep a respectful distance from one another.

That last time—he tries to remember—had Améliana been among the girl celebrants at the tail end of the procession, her face hidden by one of those kava leaf crowns? Had they, in fact, already met? Suddenly all the sights and sounds come back to him. He hasn't thought of the Yuuka Yuumai in years and now he's almost feeling nostalgic for the festivities. He has a sudden urge to go and see the whole thing.

As president, he'll have a front-row seat for the last climactic ritual, but that hardly seems enough. He won't experience a thing, won't know what it feels like to participate as one of the faithful. He wants to shed the name Matías Guili and lose himself, just one more face in the crowd.
But no, it's impossible
, he tells himself,
you're the president.

Or is it so impossible? He takes a look at his weekly agenda. Aside from the visit to Melchor, there don't seem to be any engagements of consequence these next few days. Discussions with a couple of visitors, two minor meetings, a ground-breaking ceremony for a new middle school. Nothing that can't take care of itself—but that's not the real issue here, is it? The first duty of a politician is to be where he's supposed to be, to show himself to be on the ball, to inspire people's confidence. Actual policy making and judgments are secondary. It's like being a fireman: if you're not there in the right place at the right time, you blow it, the whole shebang goes up in smoke. That's the very first thing Ryuzoji taught him when he entered the political arena in Navidad. No matter how feeble or out of sorts, even if he has to put on makeup, the politician shows his face in front of his people. There's no such thing as down time; he always has to be ready and on the scene. He participates in events, he gets up in plain view and waves. Not to reassure himself of his popularity among the citizens gathered below, but to generate that popularity.

Then, of course, many a politician has stepped out for a moment and found himself ousted in a coup. That's not to say they can't grab power anyway while you're around, but if you're not, what can you do about it? The smart man doesn't go leaving his trusted second-in-command to hold the fort; often enough that deputy will slit his throat on his return. Depart with airport fanfare and you may not deplane to a state welcome. A politician never leaves his seat vacant, not even for a moment. That's an ironclad rule.

The following morning at nine o'clock he sends for Jim Jameson.

“I'm going to be away from the office.”

“S-sir … ?” stammers the executive secretary.

“Just a three-day break. Look after things while I'm away, will you?”

“But your scheduled commitments …”

“Like I said, look after things.”

“And the ceremonies on Melchor?”

“I won't be taking part. No particular problems in that department, are there? I'm not needed there in a big way, after all. And there shouldn't be any other urgent business, correct? A little three-day absence, you'll do fine. Only, don't say it's for ‘reasons of health.' And no words like ‘urgent' or ‘emergency' either. Just leave it at ‘personal business'; that ought to go down well enough.”

“ ‘Personal business,' sir?” repeats Jameson, still incredulous. The President has never talked like this before.

“That's right, something came up I personally have to take care of myself. I'm placing full confidence in you. Just make sure that idiot Katsumata doesn't try anything smart,” he says with a laugh.

Jameson gives a strained smile. “How widely do you want this known?”

“Hmm, there
is
the option of not even announcing that I'm away. Have you field everything for the next four days, a week at the outside, and just say I'm inconvenienced at any given time.”

“And Katsumata?”

“Guess we really can't
not
tell him. Can't have him think you had me assassinated.”

“That's not very funny, sir,” he says, looking as deferential as he can.

“Okay, okay. I'll tell him myself. And anyone else in our immediate staff who absolutely needs to know, fine. Only tell them it mustn't get out. In-house rumors won't do any harm. When I'm back in a few days, it'll all be forgotten.”

“Very good, sir. What about urgent messages?”

“Out of the question.”

“You'll be impossible to reach?”

“Right. I'm going to disappear with no point of contact. During which time, I'm vesting all authority in you. Even if the Philippines declares war and attacks, I want you to handle it as best you can. I won't hold you responsible for any decisions you make in my absence. And it won't be such a bad thing for you to get the view from the top for once.”

What is the man talking about? Jameson looks at the President with sheer incomprehension. “I understand, sir. I'll do my best for three days, but please return on the fourth day. Without fail, sir.”

“You can count on me. Could you call in to get the airplane ready? I'll be leaving within the hour.”

“Where to, sir?”

“To Melchor. To the festival.”

Katsumata is not at Island Security Headquarters, nor to be found anywhere else until Matías is already en route to the airport. Finally, he gets through on his mobile phone and tells him to come to the VIP room at the terminal, there are matters to discuss. Why must he always meet this buffoon at the airport, Matías wonders as he stares at the road over Heinrich's shoulder.

“You going somewhere?” asks Katsumata as soon as he sets foot in the room.

“Just for a short while. So you keep in contact with Jim while I'm away.”

“Are you leaving right now? There's no time for me to arrange for bodyguards.”

“And none are needed.”

That shuts Katsumata up. This has never happened before. Where's the executive secretary? Should he let the President wander off on his own like this? It's unthinkable.

“The domestic front is quiet for the moment.”
Except for the handbills and torii gate and missing bus
, thinks Matías to himself. “Thanks to your efforts.”

“Nah, really, I …” mumbles Katsumata, also overlooking the obvious security issues—he's such an easy man to manipulate.

“With you around, I know nothing will happen that anyone's going to regret. So what's the latest on the bus?”

Bask in the least glimmer of favor and out of nowhere comes a sting. Katsumata looks up at the ceiling and fiddles with his sunglasses.

“Only hearsay. Nothing solid at all.”

“Is that so? Hearsay's a slippery thing to contain.”

“Yeah, and difficult to follow up. There's a funny rumor going around about the torii …”

“And?”

“And the word is, some guy says that he met someone who says he saw seven youngsters topple the gate.”

“What the hell is
that
supposed to mean?”

“Don't ask me. We tried to track down more details but came up empty-handed. The only real lead is the seven kids. No faces, no ID on any ringleader, no color or make of car, not even the name of the witness who was actually there. No one gives us any answers. It's all just hearsay, like chasing after clouds.”

“Seven kids? It could be a red herring.”

“Yeah, something that's got nothing to do with the facts.” To hear this man use the word
facts
is enough to make anyone queasy.

“Or no, I don't know, it could be the truth. Keep looking.”

“Will do, sir, but …”

“But
what
?”

“But nothing makes sense in this place. How are we supposed to conduct serious investigations here?”

“I never expected that from the beginning. If that's what I wanted, I'd have hired someone else, not you. Instead of fussing over finding the culprits, you should be deterring further incidents with those tough looks of yours.”

“Gotcha,” says Katsumata coyly.

“Well, I'm off,” says the President, nodding to the Islander pilot at the door. He grabs up a black plastic bag beside him.

“So where is it you're going?”

“Jim Jameson has the details,” is all he says as he heads for the door.

Katsumata is used to seeing the President carrying a spotless leather briefcase. The sight of him toting a garbage bag makes everything seem even stranger. The President makes for the exit, then as if something just occurred to him, he pivots abruptly and walks straight back to Katsumata.

“Lend me those, will you?”

In one swift move, like a skillful thief, he reaches out, takes Katsumata's sunglasses, and slips them into the breast pocket of his suit. Then before the man can complain, Matías has about-faced and walked out the door into the brilliant sunlight. Katsumata is lost without his sunglasses, the storm trooper reduced to a pathetic droop-eyed clown.

Matías doesn't take his usual copilot's perch, but a seat three rows back from the starboard door. The pilot obviously thinks it odd, but makes no comment, aware that his passenger doesn't want to be bothered with questions today. There's a taut urgency to his expression. What can it mean, his wanting to fly to Melchor all alone in such a hurry? It's not like him to show up unshaven either, and with only one carry-on—a garbage bag? The pilot just hopes he's not planning to open the door in mid-flight and dump whatever's inside over the ocean.
Some things you don't want to know
, thinks the usually ebullient American, trying to concentrate on his flying.

Where Améliana's ship took fifteen hours to sail three hundred kilometers, they do it in just under ninety minutes. Mid-flight, the pilot feels the plane jiggle. The President must be moving around in his seat back there. The sky is bright and calm, one-hundred-percent visibility clear to the horizon, not another aircraft in sight. It would be perfectly safe to turn around and look, but he refrains. Big-shot passengers value their privacy.

After almost ninety minutes without a word, they begin their descent. A sudden command issues from the back seat: “Pull up beside the hangar when you land.”

The Islander touches down, taxies all the way over to a lone tin-roofed shed at the far end of the tarmac from the one-room terminal, and slows to a stop. The pilot turns off the ignition and wonders, as the engine roar dies away, if he should get out to open the passenger door for the President. Highest office in the land or not, today's passenger somehow doesn't seem to be in the mood for the VIP treatment. Just as he's thinking this, he hears Matías open the door and climb down, then a voice right outside the cockpit.

“Good job. I believe you've been told the pick-up date and time.”

“Yessir,” says the pilot, looking down to see not the President who boarded at Navidad International Airport in a double-breasted suit, but a beach bum in a faded blue aloha shirt, khaki shorts, yellow flip-flop sandals, an old Taiyo Whales baseball cap and dark glasses. The salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin seems to have grown during the flight, along with years of gray hair.