In the Company of Killers, Bryan Christy [love story books to read .txt] 📗

Martelino slapped Klay’s knee. “That’s the easy part!”

The priest leapt from his sofa with surprising speed, crossed the room, and took a book from a shelf above his desk. It was a Koran. He opened it, and a handful of photographs spilled from the book onto his desk. “The Muslims bring it from Africa.”

“The Muslims?”

“On Mindanao! Look at this.” The priest handed Klay a photograph of a commercial pier, and a pair of large ships rigged with purse seine nets in the background. In the foreground rows of plastic tubs the size of refrigerators appeared to be filled with small fish in crushed ice. Klay did a quick count of the tubs, multiplying the number he could see on each axis; there were hundreds of them. Standing among the tubs were four men holding automatic weapons.

“That’s a lot of fish.”

“Zamboanga is the sardine capital of the Philippines.”

Martelino handed Klay more photographs featuring the same pier. A steel nozzle sucked sardines out of the large plastic tubs and dumped them onto a conveyor belt rolling into a building Klay assumed was a cannery.

“I tell my supplier his ivories stink like fish. It gets me a discount!”

Klay studied another photograph and suddenly realized elephant tusks were poking up among the sardines. It was not only a sardine cannery. It was an elephant graveyard on ice.

“Oh, that’s clever, Father. How much can your people get for us?”

The priest shrugged.

Klay felt a growing urgency. His digital recorder had been running all morning. He needed a connection to Botha. The public had an interest. He had an interest. “Which countries would it come from?”

The priest’s eyes sharpened. “Why do you care?”

“We’ll need a reliable supplier. Not from a country at war . . .”

“Yes. Well, I don’t know that side. They talk about Zanzibar because of the Muslims. But I don’t know. I don’t need to know. It’s not a problem.”

“I used to hunt with a South African who might be able to help us,” Klay said. “Ras Botha. He’s a professional hunter, works all over southern Africa.”

The priest shook his head.

“He does a lot of international business,” Klay said.

“I don’t know him.”

Klay studied the dilation in the priest’s pupils, the moisture along his upper lip, the flush in the capillaries in the man’s cheeks. Martelino was telling the truth. He picked up a photograph and pointed to a pair of men on the pier holding assault rifles. “Is it dangerous, Father?”

“Oh, it is some crazy people down there. Very, very bad,” Martelino said. “Abu Sayyaf. The communists. But not all . . .”

“That’s right. Mindanao. It’s a Muslim state, isn’t it, Father?”

“It deserves to be. Full of very proud people, Mindanao. Never conquered. You Americans promised them independence during your war with Spain, so they stayed out of that fighting. Then you put us, the Catholics, in charge of them. Now they have what you call ‘trust issues.’”

“I don’t understand, Father. Islamic State is there, isn’t it? A Catholic priest trades with Muslim terrorists?”

“My mother is Moro. I have cousins on Mindanao. It is family I see when I look at these people, not terrorists. It is why I was selected by the president to facilitate the peace negotiations. We have created a new region for them called Bangsamoro Autonomous Region. It is here.” A map of the Philippines hung on the wall beside the desk. Martelino pointed to Mindanao Island, and put his finger on a thin sliver of the large island that was colored red.

“Not much,” Klay said.

“Not much,” he agreed. “But a start. Contiguous territories will be permitted to opt in over time. We are a poor country, and these are our country’s poorest people, Tomas. Over half cannot read or write. They work the Zamboanga docks, but they need more to have a future. We talk so that we do not fight.”

Klay had encountered ironies all over the world, but nothing beat this: the pedophile ivory trafficker was a peace negotiator.

Martelino sifted through his photos. “I have something.” He opened a desk drawer and shuffled through papers. “Their troops have agreed to turn over their weapons. It is wonderful. We will have peace after so many years. Yes, this is what I mean.” He withdrew a color photograph from a manila envelope and handed it to Klay.

In the photo, six men and a woman stood in a line behind a long table covered in food.

“This is a boodle fight. Do you know boodle fight?”

“I am not a fighter, Father.”

“Oh, ha ha. You could be. A boodle fight is not a fight. It is a feast. Like your Thanksgiving. It’s how the cadets used to eat at the Philippine Military Academy, you know . . .” He shoveled at his face with his hands.

Klay was looking at the figures, memorizing their faces.

“We cover a long table with banana leaves. Then lay down a wide road of rice. Let’s see. It is shrimp, mussels, crabs, bangus—milkfish, which is our national fish. Ampalaya, which I don’t like, too slimy. Adobo. Tilapias. Pork. Chicken. Duck. Anything.” Martelino licked his lips. “You must repeat the ingredients over and over so that everyone can get some of everything. You eat it with your hands. Oh, not pork.” Martelino tapped the photograph. “I remember. We did only seafood and chicken for this because pork is haram. You see, I wanted to honor my uncle. They eat boodle-fight-style because they need to move quickly and cannot have glassware breaking. And also, you eat standing up, shoulder to shoulder, for the team building.”

“Who are these people, Father?”

Martelino leaned forward and lifted his glasses. “Of course that is me.” He pointed a chubby finger to himself at one end. “I am the president’s peace negotiator. There is the leader of the Abu Sayyaf. That one is MILF, who is my uncle. There is the one for the communists. Here is Mr. Wei from the Chinese embassy.”

“China?”

“Ah, so close to the South China Sea. The president said we must involve them. I told