Gretta pushed the sheet down and kicked her legs free. The temperature in the un-air-conditioned room was growing more and more uncomfortable and with her lithe body completely exposed, Arny's was rising as well. They had treated Walter to a good meal and tapped him dry about Chad. The result was a more definite idea as to where he was when he made his discovery, and a complete file on his failed search for Ned Basker. He thanked them both and stated how relieved he was that his quest had actually accomplished something.

"At least we know where to start when we get there." She drew a lazy circle on her stomach with her finger.

"He looked pretty sick."

"He is. He's dying Arny."

"I know but..." He lay down beside her and focused his eyes on her chest.

"He spent the last years of his life honouring a request from a nephew; that's pretty cool don't you think?"

"Mmmmn, cool."

"What are you doing?" She turned her head and he looked up quickly.

"Nothing."

"Don't give me nothing, you're looking at my boobs."

"Gee, after four years I thought they might be ours."

"Well they're not." She pulled the sheet up and he sighed.

"What's next, do we go straight from Canada to the Philippines?"

"That's our destination, but we can't go direct."

"How then?"

"Here to France. France to Brunei and Brunei to Mindanao. After that it's whatever we can find down to the Zamboanga Peninsula."

"How long will all that take?"

"A long time, Arny. And before you ask, there are no Congress planes available at this time."

He casually let his hand drop on top of the sheet over her hip. "What do you think happened to Basker?"

"Not a clue."

His hand moved. "You think he's still alive?"

"No idea."

The fingers stroked. "Will Marion get anything out of this?"

"Unlikely... and by the way, one inch further and you'll be sorry."

He pulled away. "Hell, Gretta. All this time and I'm treated like some groping stranger."

"Lover, nothing about you is strange... but you are very funny." She whipped the sheet off and over his head, climbing on top of him and tickling every available surface while he bucked and yelped for mercy.

                                                            ><><><><

Ned Basker raised the cracked blind on his window overlooking the port and squinted as the glare off the dirty glass pierced his eyes. He coughed, and swallowed a mouthful of saliva that made him grimace as he drifted back to his bed. The smell of stale beer, tobacco and sweat hung on both he and the room. It was on the third floor of a semi-detached house that served as lodging, usually for short term stays—mostly sailors from the shipping that regularly came into port and for drifters who worked the docks up and down the coast—although not in Ned's case. He had settled in and no one was inclined to ask him to move on.

He hauled his boots out from under the bed and pulled them on over his bare feet, then grabbed a wrinkled shirt from the back of a chair and slipped it on as he left the room. The day was just beginning as Ned strode down the road, startling a flock of gulls next to a small fishing boat. A few men offered a cautionary wave as he passed but no words were exchanged. He turned the corner and climbed a short hill to the diner that provided his breakfast and dinner every day.

Ned had been living in his room for two years, working on the docks when he could, for rent and food money. Not many wanted to hire him a second time after being exposed to his violent and often dangerous behaviour. He entered the diner and took his favourite seat on the end of the counter.

"Same thing, Ned?" The stocky man behind the bar asked, already knowing the answer and without asking, bringing him a plate of bread and slipping some bacon onto the grill. It didn't pay to get too close to Ned Basker, just be pleasant, brief and stay out of his way.

"Got a paper?" Ned asked.

"Here you go." The man pulled one from beneath the counter and set it in front of him. "Got work today?"

"Nah, but I can pay for this." The voice carried an edge.

"Never doubted, Ned. Never doubted."

Ned bit off a piece of bread and opened the paper, scanning it for something of interest, something to move his mind away from the morass of ugly thoughts that plagued him. His eyes fell on a small headline and he stopped chewing, bits of bread tumbling from his mouth onto the counter in front of him. The article was about a website created by a group discussing World War II military leaders. The name that riveted his attention was, Yamashita Tomoyuki, aka Yamashita Hobun, the 'Tiger of Malaya'. He flattened the paper on the counter and studied the article intently.

Yamashita Tomoyuki (1885-1946) was the Japanese general principally responsible for the successful conquest of British Malaya and Singapore during World War II (1939-1945). Born in Kochi Prefecture, Yamashita graduated from the Army Academy in 1908 and the Army War College in 1916. He was rapidly promoted and became commander of the Japanese army on the Manchurian border in 1937, with the rank of Lieutenant General, eventually becoming the highest ranking general in the army air force.

He developed strategies and tactics for jungle fighting later used in invasions of the Thai and Malay Peninsulas.

Appointed commander of the Japanese 25th Army in 1941, he was dispatched to Malaya and overran the Malay Peninsula within ten weeks, forcing the surrender of the British fortress installation at Singapore on February 15, 1942. Subsequently, Japan's Prime Minister, Tojo Hideki, secured Yamashita's removal to army training duties in Manchuria, where he served until 1944.

On Tojo's resignation, Yamashita was sent to defend the Philippines against American forces, but suffered severe defeats in the Leyte and Luzon campaigns. It was here his reputation was enhanced by the rumours of plundered loot carefully concealed in the mountains and designated as 'Yamashita's Gold. As yet it has not all been recovered.

Maintaining his defence until after the Japanese surrender in August 1945, Yamashita was eventually hanged in Manila in 1946 for war crimes committed under his command, although his defence was ignorance of the crimes.

Ned pounded his fist on the paper and let out a roar that brought the counterman running from the kitchen in a panic. "Ned! What's up?"

"They're making him a friggin' hero!"

"Who?"

Ned tossed the paper aside without answering and raged out of the diner and down the hill back to his room. He dragged his old kit bag from beneath the bed and took out a small envelope containing old photos. The first picture was the one he wanted. It showed him and three other soldiers, all with their arms across one another's shoulders, all looking fit and young and smiling. 

The soldier next to Ned was just a kid—Chad Kent—that got himself in a pile of trouble on patrol and had to be rescued. That was Ned's job, but in the process he was captured, and for sixteen months, endured unspeakable acts as his captors tried to make him confess his knowledge of a horde of gold. The same bloody gold in the newspaper article.

He had no idea what they were talking about and it wasn't until he was finally rescued himself and in a psych hospital for another six months, that he heard the stories from the war about buried treasure in the Philippines. His return to civilian life was a disaster. He couldn't face his wife with his disabilities, and when she tried to understand he raged at her and threatened horrible things. It didn't work... it couldn't and Ned left without a word, knowing he would never return. Now they're putting this guy—the guy whose gold he never did know anything about but had cost him his manhood and self-respect—on the internet for all to read about and admire for his military achievements. He put the photos away and withdrew the oilskin wrap from the kit bag and opened it to reveal a well oiled and well maintained automatic. He held it up, admiring the dull sheen and the smooth click of the action as he chambered a shell.

The noise of the shot coincided with the crash of a dropped cargo crate on the dock, and so Ned's body wasn't discovered for days, and it was long after that when his wife was finally traced and informed by the police of his suicide.