Operation Bear Cat

VI

2009-06-28T02:08:00.001-07:00

Keith Waters a.k.a. Andrei Chernenko was aboard his Ford Cortina cruising along Roxas Boulevard one early evening when he noticed a green Mitsubishi Lancer tailing him. He instinctively looks at his rearview mirror and observed the car accelerating whenever he would accelerate and slows down whenever he would slow down.

He then turned right on Quirino Avenue and stopped at the nearby Caltex Gasoline Station purportedly for gas while casually observing the surroundings. In the corner of his eye, he saw the car slowly come to a stop in the dark portion of the road just several meters away from the gas station.

He discretely pulled out his Walter PPK from under a specially made compartment under his seat and placed it on between his legs as he made a slow u-turn, sped off and heads back to Roxas Boulevard.

He watched the car make a sudden turn on the first intersection and gave a chase but still following the speed limit so as not to attract the attention of passers- by and traffic policemen. He drove off in the direction of the Manila Hotel and slowly eased his car in the deserted parking lot.

He got out from the car fast and hid behind the huge trunk of an Acacia tree just a few meters away from where his car and waited. His thoughts were racing and his heart pumping in anticipation of the course of action that he will have to take when the situation called for it.

A minute or two passed before he saw a pair of headlights coming into his direction as he instinctively ducked for cover as the car passed by and then stopped at the vacant parking space just to the left of where his car was parked.

A Caucasian- looking man wearing a baseball cap and a black denim jacket alighted from the car and scanned the surroundings, as if looking for something and casually walked into the direction of his car. As soon as the man reached the side of his car and started peeking inside, he emerged from his hiding with the Walter in hand and casually asks the man-

“All right buddy, who are you and what do you want?”

The man stood motionless for a moment and now starting to turn slowly towards him but Waters warned him in a low voice, “Uh-uh, don’t do it man lest I’ll be constrained to waste you.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t do that,” a familiar voice coming from his back told him as he turned his head slowly and was surprised to see a familiar face in front of him grinning from ear to ear.

“Nice to see you again, Andrei Chernenko, it‘s been a long time. By the way, let me introduce you to the guy that you just pulled out a piece on, my new partner Igor Danilovich. ”

“Well, well, well. What do we got here an old ghost and his shadow suddenly materializes in front of me? I do now believe that we are really up to something big here, what with the honor of your presence in this beautiful country.”

“You got it right comrade, your golden slumber is over. Igor here was pulled out from his assignment with the Stasi in East Berlin just to be with us on this mission.”

“It’s been a long time comrade Vassily, I never thought we would work together again” as a genuine smile flashed in Keith Waters’ face.

“In that case, comrade, be careful what you wish for. We will be together again for this mission just like the old times and of course, for the glory of the motherland,” shot back the veteran KGB agent to the Sleeper. “I want you to organize for me, a tour near the naval base in a week or two. We also need some local help; I suppose that won’t be a problem with you?”

“No problem comrade, in a day or two, everything will be set. Trust me; I’ve done my homework well. You can bet on that,” replied Chernenko to his old comrade.

V

2009-03-14T01:35:00.000-07:00

Local fishermen fished a decomposing body of an unidentified Caucasian male out of Manila Bay. He was wearing a black scuba diver’s suit with no identifiable marks and his face was scarred and his body bloated beyond recognition that made it more difficult for the local Police to identify the floater.

The agents of the Interpol Division of the Philippines’ National Bureau of Investigation (NBI) were called in and were tasked to work on the case in cooperation with the Criminal Investigation Service of the National Police.

Finding no clues on his death rather than by drowning as a result of a scuba accident, the local authorities ruled it as such. The authorities were left facing a blank wall on his identity and nationality and decided to tag the body- Mr. X.

The agent in charge, Special Agent Danny Carrion of the NBI burned the telephone lines to all the foreign embassies in Metro Manila inquiring for any missing citizen of their respective countries residing or traveling in the Philippines. The inquiries proved negative and so the Mr. X case was soon swept into the logbook of unsolved cases in the country.

………….

At the US embassy, Jonathan Sanders was reading the day’s copy of the Daily Express to pass the time in the office of the US Ambassador when his eyes caught a small item on the lower side of the paper- the news about an unidentified male Caucasian who was found and fished out off the dirty waters of the bay by local fishermen.

He instinctively got the gold- plated Cross ball pen from his shirt pocket, encircled the news item and picked up the receiver of the phone in the coffee table. He dialed a familiar number and spoke to his friend, Capt. Jose Castillo.

“M-I-G, Hello,” said a weary voice on the other end of the line.

“May I please speak with GI Joe?” asked the resident head of the office.

“This is him, who’s on the line?”

“Hey, Joe, it’s me Jon, can I see you this afternoon same time, same place? Whadaya think?”

“No problem, buddy. I’ll be there,” Capt. Castillo hung up and replaced the receiver back into the cradle and quietly resumed his work.

……………….

At exactly 8 o’clock in the evening, Capt. Castillo walked in at the lobby of the 365 Club of the Manila Intercontinental Hotel and headed straight into the corner table without attracting much attention from the crowd of drinking expatriates and some Filipino high- ranking government officials alike.

A few minutes later, Jonathan Sanders approached and joined him and seated at the chair opposite him while at the same time looking him straight in the eye with his penetrating blue eyes as if reading his soul.

“So wazzup, my friend? Is there anything I can do for the company?” asked Capt. Castillo to his long- time drinking buddy.

“I’m interested in the floater that is now in the hands of the NBI. I want to find out who this man is. I want access to his dental records and anything that you deemed significant,” said the American to his friend and comrade.

“No problem my man, the agent handling the case is my Mistah from the academy before I went to West Point. You’ll have what you want in no time,” assured the local spook.

“C’mon the night is still young, we need some time in our hands,” as Capt. Castillo hailed the passing waiter and ordered a round of their favorite drinks.

...IV...

2008-11-10T22:49:00.001-08:00

Jonathan Sanders filed a report through a secure phone line to the director of the agency’s Far East Division at Langley regarding the presence of the two veteran KGB agents in Manila.

He was advised to exercise the necessary cautions and just monitor their activities under the radar. Prudence is necessary in this case to avoid a repeat of the leak that enabled a ranking member of the terrorist group Black September, who participated in the 1972 Munich Olympic massacre of Israeli athletes to elude arrest. The terrorist was then living in Manila on an Iranian student visa under an assumed name but managed to slip through the dragnets and escape to Libya due to leaks that were attributed by the office to some sympathizers in the local police.

In fact, the Palestinian was tipped off by a member of the local intelligence service in exchange for a huge sum of money. The bagman and his boss in turn escaped through the Philippines’ backdoor by pump boat to neighboring Malaysia and were never heard of again.

The media feasted on the story and the then station chief was put in the freezer and was banished to a listening post in Alaska. This time, Mr. Sanders would not allow a repeat of the incident. He was a proud man and despised being burned and outwitted by the enemy in whatever form. He rose from the ranks of field agents and has proven himself in the dark alleys of Western Europe before being assigned to the Philippines.

At quarter past 8 in the evening, a dark blue heavily tinted Datsun sedan was seen leaving the Vietnamese’s Consular Services building along Vito Cruz Avenue. An hour and a half later, the same car was seen parked outside the Holiday Inn hotel along T.M. Kalaw Street in Manila.

Outside, there is a trickle of people walking on the sidewalks. A few cars and jeepneys would dart to and fro in the quiet night. The street was almost deserted when a shadow was seen moving into the parked Datsun. Armed with a penlight, the shadow knelt and reached under the hood and then casually walked back into the hotel lobby.

A few minutes later, he went out again and hailed a cab to take him back to his hotel in Manila. The Datsun was seen entering the Vietnamese Consular Services’ building just before the midnight curfew.

Inside his room, Igor Marciulionis unpacked the package and his eyes lit with excitement as he examined the Colt .45 Caliber pistol in front of him. He tinkered with the gun and examined the four extra magazine clips for a while like a child enjoying his brand new toy. Satisfied, he then hid the pistol under his pillow.

The Makarov was still his weapon of choice if he can help it but the powerful weapon now in his possession will make the job easier. Besides he is fascinated by the history of the gun now in his hand. The Colt .45 Caliber pistol was invented by the Americans half a century before to combat and stop the Juramentados, Muslim fanatics that put dread in the hearts of the US soldiers in the southern Philippine island of Mindanao, the very country that he is now in.

He smiled at the irony as he is now in possession of the legendary pistol and might even use it against the very same people who invented it or so he thought to himself. He downed a bottle of San Miguel Beer, put out the lights and went to sleep.

Vassily Tikhonenko was busy studying the maps and pictures of both the Subic Naval Base and the Clark Air Force Base that were sent to him through an agent-courier by their point man based in the country. The identities of the point man as well as the resident agents were unknown to him. They were trained by the KGB to work individually, told on a need-to-know basis and not to ask questions.

Their network in a particular country is usually compartmentalized and divided into different cells not knowing each other usually under the guidance of an agent- in- charge known as the Control. They work like a well- oiled machine, each with an individual function or mission to pursue that in the end, the success of the mission depends upon all the agents doing their end of the bargain.

The Control who is answerable only to the Chief of the Bureau knows the real identities of the agents involved in a particular mission. This way, if somebody falls to the enemy, that agent will not compromise the entire mission or network. Also, if there is some leakage of information, they could accurately pinpoint the party involved and damage control can be done without harming the entire organization.

They were always successful in this kind of set-up and this time, the entire KGB hierarchy’s hopes of settling the score with the Americans rests on the shoulders of the few men now working in the field.

...III...

2008-09-01T07:10:00.000-07:00

The Japan Airlines from Narita touched down smoothly on runway 3 of the Manila International Airport to the wild applause of its passengers for the uneventful three-hour flight from Japan.

As the plane slowly taxied on the tarmac to dock into terminal 7, Vassily Tikhonenko, the KGB’s Japan Assistant Bureau Chief traveling on a false British passport rose from his seat and reached for his hand- carried luggage from the baggage compartment of the Airbus 300.

Two aisles behind him, Igor Marciuliunis, his Lithuanian trusted aide, his shadow of five years, followed him as they made their way out of the plane into the passenger’s lounge with the other noisy and excited travelers of various nationalities.

After passing through the usual immigration procedures, they boarded a Ford yellow taxicab for the 15- minute ride to the hotel in downtown Manila.

Unknown to them, their presence in the Philippines was already tipped off by a mole at the Russian Embassy in Tokyo to the station chief of the CIA who in turn sent their resident agent codenamed Spider to tail them together with a Filipino recruit, Capt. Jose Castillo, a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point who is the Deputy Intelligence Chief of the dreaded Military Intelligence Group of the Philippine Constabulary.

Jonathan Sanders was puzzled at the presence of the KGB agents in Manila and believe that this was not a case of routine R&R activities. They knew for a fact that many enemy agents use the Philippines despite the presence of the biggest US facility in the Far East, not for intelligence gathering, but as a place to relax and recharge their batteries and escape, literally and figuratively, the heat in Europe and the Middle East for the Filipinos are cosmopolitan in nature and they welcome foreigners with open arms.

“Something’s not right,” he murmured to himself as he replaced the receiver of the telephone in his office at the JUSMAG headquarters upon receiving the confirmation from Spider of the arrival of the two Soviet spooks.

They have known all the Russian diplomats and personnel at the Soviet mission in Manila and monitored all their movements and activities in the past but they always ended up empty-handed for whether it is by design or not, not a single member of Russia’s diplomatic corps was involved in any suspicious activities that may be construed as bordering to espionage.

The sudden presence of these two top agents of the KGB from Japan may change the agency’s belief and enhance his growing suspicion that something’s up in the air, that the Russkies are now cooking something that he needed to find out, soon.

In the hotel room, Vassily quietly unpacked his hand-carried baggage and quietly swept the entire hotel room looking for bugs out of practice and habit. One can never be sure and it always pays to be on the safe side, small things that will make a difference between life and death, a practice that every agent worth his salt should know. A practice that he put to good use a long time ago in the dark seedy hotels of Western Europe before he was re-assigned to Japan.

He pulled down the curtains and carefully peek through the slats of the blinds into the busy streets looking for anything that is odd--faces, movements, anything that seem out of place.

Satisfied of what he saw, he pulled a stick out from a Seven Stars cigarette pack that he bought from the Duty- Free shop at the airport and casually lit the stick as he lay down on his back on the soft bed puffing the smooth Japanese tobacco while contemplating on what to do.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Who’s there?” he asked in his cultured British accent as he move swiftly at the side of the door, his thoughts racing and his body’s prime for action.

“Open up, this is the police!” said an authoritative voice at the other side of the door.

His heart began to pump vigorously as he readied himself for any eventuality. He got hold of a beer bottle from the mini- fridge in the room and using his right arm, he held the bottle at his back as he slowly opened the door and peeped through the slight opening and politely asked the police officer who upon seeing him was apologetic about the reason for the disturbance.

“I’m sorry to bother you sir, we’re just checking out whether you really are the same person that the butler said you are as listed in the guest list. In the past this hotel was used by some local lawless elements for their sanctuary using foreign names to escape detection,” explained the police officer.

“Don’t worry sir, this is just a routine check. Again please accept my apologies for disturbing your peace. We are just doing our job, you know?” added the bespectacled boyish- looking officer as he and his men quietly proceeded next door.

“No problem, sir,” replied Vassily as he heaved a sigh of relief.

...II...

2008-08-20T03:31:00.001-07:00

Jonathan Sanders was an economics major just a year out of Princeton and was getting tired of his daily routine in his high- paying job as an analyst in one of the big firms in downtown Manhattan when the lure of the agency and mystique of secrecy beaconed on him when he “accidentally” met his boyhood friend, Lamar Johnson in one of the bars frequented by young professionals in New York.

Although he was surprised at seeing his old friend seated on the bar stool near the counter with a beer in hand, still it was quite a big lift for his tired and weary psyche in seeing his old buddy.

Over several bottles of Budweiser, they reminisced about the good ol’ days in far away Kalamazoo, MI and then their talk went to other things.

“So, wazzup, what brought you to the Big Apple my man? Wacha been doing all these years, huh buddy?” asked Jonathan while jokingly winking and giving a high five to his old pal.

“I’ve been through a lot, buddy. I’ve done things that you never thought I could, been to places that you never imagined, not even in your wildest dreams, man!” he answered while downing the last drop from the brown bottle.

“You shitin’ me huh? What are you some kind of a traveling salesman?” he shot back in jest as he felt the spirit of the bottle getting a hold on his senses.

“I heard you’ve been with the Marines in Nam?”

“Nope, it’s quite a long story and it’s classified and I am not at liberty to tell anyone about my work but hell, you’re my old buddy from the sleepy town of Lafayetteville. So, I guess it’s safe to tell you about the nature of my work.” Lamar answered with a foolish grin on his pockmarked face as they transferred with beer bottles in hand to a newly vacated table near the back door of the bar cum restaurant.

“Don’t tell me that it’s classified and all that crap!” Jonathan hollered while laughing at his buddy whose face turned serious. “Nah, don’t give me that look man.”

“You’re goddam right my friend. I am a certified member of the exclusive club of Air America!” Lamar told him with a straight face while at the same time looking him straight in the eye from across the black Mahogany table.

Jonathan had known the guy for a long time and he knew when he is pulling his leg or not and this time he could tell that he is not that he blurted out spontaneously, “Wow, man that could be so cool! I wish I could be like you but I guess I am stuck here in the mud that is New York City.”

“That will soon change buddy, if you want to. We are in need of men like you. Men who are athletic, professionals and knowledgeable about things, you know?” Lamar told him with his familiar baritone without batting an eyelash as he continued his monologue.

“In fact, people from the company were sent on the lookout for people like you- Ivy Leaguers bored with their present jobs, and adventurous individuals with no baggage on the side. You think I will just pop out of nowhere just to say hello? Aw c’mon man, you know me better than that!” he added.

Lamar was now talking excitedly, “for months without me knowing it some of our people have been doing a lot of background checking on you buddy, and I’m proud to say that you fit the description to a tee. The company pulled me out from Berlin and sent me here when they found out that we both came from the same town and attended the same high school, played football together, just to convince you. We need you, and Uncle Sam needs you my friend!"

Jonathan was stunned with the sudden turn of events that he groped for words. He tried to open his mouth but nothing came out of it except, “No shit, are you for real, spook?”

“No shit!” Lamar is now grinning from ear to ear, a picture of a man that is so sure of himself. “I am for real, buddy and I want you to come with me, to Langley after tonight and see it for yourself. I’m sure you’ll love it man.”

“Tell me, are you in or not?”

“Ok, I’m in.” without hesitation the words flowed freely that even he was surprised by the swiftness of his decision.

“Good.”

“Let’s celebrate and drink to that, buddy” were the last words that he remembered Lamar utter as they both burst with laughter and drank their hearts out for the night.

So on that wild and wooly night in one of the exclusive nightclubs in the city that never sleeps, the die is cast for Jonathan Sanders to be a card- carrying member of the exclusive circle of invisible men who will fight the dirty wars of America.

...1...

2007-10-27T21:13:00.000-07:00

The man in a blue denim jacket sitting at the corner table of the local French Café rose from his seat the moment he saw the tall blonde lady, clad in an olive Nike parka jacket with matching green jogging suits and sporting Adidas running shoes pass by on her way to the nearby Coffee shop frequented by foreigners and expatriates at the ground floor of the 5- Star Grand Hilton Hotel right after her daily early morning ritual of brisk walking along the sidewalks of Roxas Boulevard overlooking Manila Bay just a stone’s throw away from the sprawling white steel-fenced, heavily secured and barricaded compound of the US Embassy in Manila.

The woman was the wife of the US Military Attaché to the Philippines. The man is an agent of the KGB, posing as an English businessman who operates a travel agency that caters to Europeans, mostly British Nationals for a guided tour of the scenic Pearl of the Orient.

He is in fact, Andrei Chernenko, the KGB’s sleeper called back to life by the sudden turn of events in South East Asia who goes by the name of Keith Waters, an Englishman from London for his cover.

At the height of the Cold War, the Philippines became the focal point of espionage and source of information for the Russian military second only to Japan in Asia.

The presence of the 13th Air Force at the Clark Air Force Base in Pampanga and the US Navy’s Seventh Fleet in nearby Subic Naval Base in Olongapo made the country the hotbed of covert activities between the two protagonists.

It was the year that Lt. Victor Belenko flew the enigmatic Mig- 25 fighter jet, undetected by radar to the island of Hokkaido in Japan as he defected to the West taking with him the prized jet fighter’s technology of the Soviet Air Force and its closely guarded secrets.

Tension between the two countries was at its peak.

The head of the KGB on marching orders from the Kremlin was forced to pull out half of his agents and abandon most of its activities in Western Europe and deployed its best field operatives in Asia raring to even the score with the Americans to atone for the embarrassments that they have been taking recently.

Foremost of the target of the operation codenamed BearCat are the US facilities in the Philippines.

For the first time, the old men in the Kremlin as well as the heads of both the Glavnoje Razvedyvatel'noje Upravlenije (GRU) & the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti (KGB) had a meeting of the minds and decided to establish listening posts in the Philippines and bug the American Ambassador’s Residence as well as the US Embassy and JUSMAG facilities for data gathering and counter- intelligence operations.

Another was to monitor the movement and activities of the US Military Attaché, who is usually the station chief of the Cental Intelligence Agency (CIA) and the agency’s secret hand in the implementation of the Low Intensity Conflict that involves training and arming the Philippine military of the feared Dictator against the Chinese- backed Maoist- Leninist New People’s Army (NPA), the military arm of the outlawed Communist Party of the Philippines (CPP).

The ultimate objective though is to try smuggle and hijack the best US plane available out of the Philippines into the waiting hands of Soviet scientists and technicians by flying it out from the aircraft carrier docked off the waters of Subic Bay into the former US Naval Base in Cam Ranh Bay in Vietnam now shadowy run by the Soviet Navy.

The plane is none other than the multi- dimensional fighter jet, the F- 14 Tomcat on board the carrier USS Enterprise that regularly visits the Naval Base for repair, maintenance, supplies and R & R for the sea- sick sailors.

.....

The woman was seated alone in a table for two munching on chocolate- flavored donuts and a hot cup of steaming brewed coffee on the table while reading the day’s issue of the Stars and Stripes.

Chernenko a.k.a. Keith Waters proceeded to the deli and bought himself a cup of hot chocolate and a bagel. Armed with a copy of the Daily Express tucked in his armpit, he casually scanned the crowded place looking purportedly for an empty seat. Then with calculated steps, he tread on the marble floor in the direction of the empty seat at the table of the wife of the US Military Attaché.

He cleared his throat and politely asked the lady in his crisp British accent if he can share the table with her. She graciously offered him a seat and before she could continue reading the newspaper in her hand, he introduced himself to the lady.

“I’m Keith Waters from England, I operate a travel agency here in Manila and maybe, just maybe if the lady wants to see the beautiful sights of the 7,100+ islands of the Pearl of the Orient, I can be of service for free!” he said in a soft confident voice followed by a polite smile, an invitation for a conversation that is hard to resist.

He was quite good-looking, that he knows, an asset that he put to good use in Britain when he penetrated the walls of MI5 that made him one of the best field agents of the entire KGB in that country before he asked to be taken out due to burn out and was sent instead to the Philippines as a sleeper with a very good cover and he is now working his charm on the unsuspecting woman.

“Really, oh how I love to, but my husband would not let me though. The security, uhm peace and order situation in this country is unstable, you know? It is only here in Manila that’s safe enough for us foreigners to roam around, you know?” She looked him in the eye with genuine interest.

“Well, this country is under martial rule for how many years now? I think everything is under control by that guy, what’s his name, Mah-cos?"

" I’ve been operating this travel agency for tourists, mostly Europeans- Brits, French and Italians for three years now and so far no untoward incident has happened that will make me change my views about this country. "

"Everything is under control as they say,” he retorted complete with an insane imitation of the Philippine strongman’s trademark baritone and comedic shrugging of his big broad shoulders while at the same time flashing his winsome smile.

Several minutes had passed. A couple of niceties here and there coupled by a joke or two every now and then. Their conversations began to flow freely as they eventually become at ease with each other’s presence.

“My husband told me that contrary to what the authorities wants us to believe, it’s really worse than what you see on the surface. This country is like a time bomb waiting to explode. Believe me, I know.” She uttered in a deadpan expression commonly seen in the face of people in the know of things.

“Hmm, I might be wrong but I think your husband is in the CIA or something. You sound that he’s really in the know! I ‘m getting afraid with the way this conversation is going.” He acted as if cowering in his seat while looking around the lobby that made her laugh at his antics.

“That was of course a joke, pardon me.”

She answered back with wit that shows that behind the blonde hair, she is no dumb woman: “No, not really, he works there in the embassy, the US embassy. He’s a career diplomat and I’ve been with him from the Middle East to Europe and I am positive he’s not CIA otherwise you’d be dead in your seats by now!”

Their conversation was cut short when she looked at her Girard- Pirrageux sports watch and said,

“Oh, it’s quarter past eight, I better go. Nice meeting you Mr. Waters, I’m Meg Sanders.”

She extended her hand and he took and shook it warmly. Then he casually reached for his wallet at the back pocket of his Levi’s denim pants and fished out a plastic laminated calling card and handed it to her.

“Well, in case you change your mind, just call me. You really have got to see the sights. I’ll guarantee you, you’ll love it."

" Guess, I’ll see you around Meg, can I call you Meg?”

“No problem, I’ll do just that. Bye.”

“Bye.”

He watched her as she slipped out of the hotel lobby and hailed a cab to take her back to the Condominium unit in Makati provided by the embassy for its people.

Waters returned to his seat, drank the hot choco and finished off his bagel, wiped the crumbs off his shirt and slowly walked away from the crowd...