The Last Good Man

Detained

Two hours later they’re back in Manila. Alex hasn’t seen True since the roadblock, when they were escorted to separate police cars. “Where’s my wife?” he’s asked more than once. “Why are we being detained?”

No one consented to answer.

He sits now at a battered steel table in an austere interview room that stinks of disinfectants. Cameras in the ceiling corners are protected by hemispherical pods. Across the table from him is a uniformed police officer, a man in his thirties, bulked up like a weightlifter, with dark eyebrows knit in a puzzled but not unfriendly expression as he asks Alex, “You are a US Army veteran, Mr. Delgado?”

Alex frowns. Not a question he expected. What the fuck is going on?

“Yes, I’m an army veteran, but it’s been a long time. I work now as a paramedic and I’m due back at work in about thirty-four hours. We’re scheduled to fly out in the morning.”

The officer cocks his head as if he’s having a problem parsing this answer. “You don’t work as a mercenary for this private militia, Requisite Operations?”

Alex narrows his eyes. “You’ve been misinformed, sir. Requisite Operations is not a militia. It’s a military contractor. And no, I don’t work for them. I’m not a mercenary. I’m a paramedic.”

“But you are married to True Brighton?”

“Yes, True is my wife.”

“Your wife, she is part owner of Requisite Operations?”

Alex inclines his head. “She has an interest, yes. But we’re here in your country for personal reasons. Nothing to do with the company.”

The officer looks suddenly stern. “Is your wife a mercenary, Mr. Delgado?”

Lincoln is in a nearby room. He’s been deprived of all electronics except for his left hand and his artificial eye, although the eye caused concern among the officers, who worried it might be capable of recording the interview. Lincoln assured them this was not the case, but they asked him to wear an eye patch anyway. He agreed to this.

He’s already answered a few innocuous questions asked by a senior officer whose sun-worn face is flecked with dark moles. Time to get serious, he thinks as she leans forward, resting her ring-encrusted right hand on the table between them, her dark-eyed gaze fixed on him. “You control your own private militia. Is that correct, Mr. Han?”

“No, ma’am. I’m the owner and chief executive of Requisite Operations Incorporated, a private military and security company. We are not a private militia. We are a United States government contractor and a signatory of the internationally enforced Military Company Code of Conduct. I can confirm for you that True Brighton, whom your people also took into custody, is my Director of Operations. That said, we are here in the Philippines for personal reasons unrelated to company business. The other members of our party, Miles Dushane, Alex Delgado, and Reynaldo Gabriel, are not employees of Requisite Operations.”

The officer nods solemnly throughout this explanation, letting him know he has her full attention. She speaks her next question slowly, as if she’s carefully choosing her words. “You understand that it is concerning to us that a ‘private military company’ should come into this country for the single purpose of consorting with a known radical element?”

Lincoln echoes the officer’s precise manner of speaking. “Ma’am, as I have explained, we are not here on company business. We’ve come to see a Filipino citizen by the name of Daniel Ocampo. Our purpose was to interview him about his time as a prisoner of the Saomong Cooperative Cybernetic Army—an experience that took place eight years ago, in a distant country.”

Later that night, True sits with her arms crossed, facing the same officer, presenting a confident, self-contained front. The simmering anger underneath well disguised.

She has already answered questions about Requisite Operations, and about her knowledge of Daniel Ocampo and Reynaldo Gabriel. The questions she dreaded, about the time spent at the printer’s, have not materialized. They may have gotten lucky. That operation was paid for with pre-purchased codes that are not immediately traceable, so it’s possible the police don’t know they were there.

True has finally gotten the senior officer to confirm why they were detained. She had already guessed the answer, but to hear it spoken…

Her voice remains soft but there is a fiery edge to her words. “Eight years ago, my son, a United States Army soldier, was captured and murdered by the terrorist organization known as the Saomong CCA. He died fighting terrorism, ma’am. And here, tonight, you tell me that I have been detained on suspicion of terrorism, simply for asking questions of Daniel Ocampo, another victim of the Saomong and a witness to my son’s execution.”

There is real sympathy in the officer’s eyes as she says, “I understand your passion, Ms. Brighton. My own son was killed in action in Mindanao.”

True inclines her head. “I’m sorry to hear it. You have my deepest sympathies.” She lets her shoulders relax; she rests her hands on the table. “I don’t mean to cause trouble for you, but you need to understand that the American media is going to have a field day with this story.”

“Yes,” Miles says in answer to a question from the slim, neatly uniformed young officer conducting his interview. “I am a freelance journalist. I discovered Daniel Ocampo’s existence while working on another story. Rey Gabriel arranged the interview. He’s acted as our guide.”

His voice is calm. He is calm. Silently he repeats True’s words, telling himself, This is not like before.

Miles has used those words over and over, a comforting mantra that allowed him to hide his panic when a cell door closed behind him. The national police have their own reputation, but they are not Al-Furat. He is not in the custody of Hussam El-Hashem. This is not like before.

The officer proves it by speaking in a polite, conversational tone. “Were you aware of Mr. Ocampo’s radical associations?”

“Yes, in a general way.”

“Are you aware that Mr. Ocampo is interested in hiring the services of Requisite Operations?”

Miles is stunned at the accusation—but he’s pleased too, because their innocence will be easy to prove. “No,” he says firmly. “That’s not true. It’s not remotely credible. What you need to do is contact the United States Department of State. I’m sure you’ll find officials eager to vouch for the integrity of both Lincoln Han and Requisite Operations.”

“Yes, Mr. Dushane,” the young officer agrees. “That will be part of our investigation. Can you tell me, is it your intention to write about this interview that took place with Mr. Ocampo?”

Miles hesitates, pondering the motive behind this question. Have the police realized they’ve got nothing? No evidence? Just a looming propaganda nightmare…

If what they need now is a graceful way out of this situation, he’ll do what he can to help. “No, I won’t be writing about the interview,” Miles says. “Mr. Ocampo stipulated that what he had to say was not for publication. He spoke to us only as a personal favor to True Brighton and Alex Delgado.” He gives the officer a knowing look. “So far, I don’t have a story to report on. Let’s not change that, okay?”