Seducing the Dictator

Sex, Lies, and Audiotape

“This country really needs my husband, don’t you think? My husband really should stay on. Don’t you agree?” The CIA learned of these musings by Imelda Marcos, whose husband, Ferdinand Marcos, was constitutionally ineligible to run for President under the Constitution of the Philippines in 1972. The Philippine Constitutional Convention was going nowhere in terms of making the revisions that would allow President Marcos to seek a third term and there was, in his view, only one way to remain in power: declare martial law.

In September 1972, U.S. Ambassador Henry A. Byroade received a copy of Proclamation No. 1081, Marcos’ legal justification for martial law, from a CIA contact linked to the main planners of the move. Although rumors had been circulating, this was the first solid confirmation for the embassy. At the local CIA station, officers were uncertain as to why Marcos was moving ahead with becoming a dictator as they had no indication as to whether the U.S. government supported this development. “I just don’t see him doing it without clearing it with someone up the ladder—and very high up the ladder,” a senior CIA official later stated. “He just would not have gone ahead without some assurance that he was not going to get clobbered.” It took decades before the secret history of this time period in U.S.-Philippines relations was revealed. Marcos had not been the CIA’s first choice to lead the Philippines; his rise to power came about despite their efforts to back other candidates.

Maintenance

From the early 1950s onward, the United States—particularly through the CIA—played a decisive, behind-the-scenes role in shaping Philippine politics. The Agency’s involvement began in earnest during the 1953 presidential election, when it orchestrated the rise of Ramon Magsaysay. To ensure his victory, the CIA created the National Movement for Free Elections (NAMFREL), which provided a cover of electoral legitimacy while helping suppress fraud in areas that might favor his opponent. American operatives influenced Philippine newspapers, mobilized covert funding, and had contingency plans for a coup in case Magsaysay lost.

Once in office, Magsaysay proved a dependable U.S. partner, regularly consulting CIA officers before taking positions on foreign affairs. However, the Agency also worked aggressively to neutralize political adversaries—most notably nationalist Senator Claro M. Recto, who opposed U.S. military bases and called for greater Philippine independence in foreign policy. The CIA conducted an extensive smear campaign against Recto, portraying him as a communist sympathizer and Soviet stooge. Tactics included planting negative articles in the press and interfering with his public appearances.

Searching through the CIA’s files one day to learn more about the Agency’s work in the Philippines, case officer Joseph Burkholder Smith made a discovery that “absolutely astounded” him. Inside of a sealed envelope marked “Courtesy of Claro M. Recto—the People’s Friend,” he found a bunch of condoms riddled with holes. Asking around the office as to why this existed, he learned that it had been part of a dirty tricks campaign to “show how Recto would let you down.” Unbeknownst to Smith, the Agency had gone even further, discussing the possibility of assassinating him if he became too great a threat. Manila’s CIA Chief of Station, Ralph B. Lovett and the U.S. Ambassador, Raymond A. Spruance, discussed how Recto could be poisoned and a bottle containing the assassination mixture was delivered to the Philippines. The idea was later dismissed for practical considerations, according to Lovett, “rather than moral scruples.” Similar to how the CIA’s poisons to assassinate Congo leader Patrice Lumumba were buried near a river, the bottle of poison in this instance was dumped into the Manila Bay.

After Magsaysay’s sudden death in 1957, the U.S. scrambled to maintain influence over its former colony. The Agency cultivated ties with other politicians, attempting to engineer electoral outcomes favorable to Washington. In 1959, the CIA backed a coalition known as the “Grand Alliance” in the Senate elections, though the effort largely failed. In the 1961 presidential race, however, the U.S. again succeeded—this time by discreetly supporting Diosdado Macapagal, who defeated incumbent Carlos P. Garcia. Macapagal was seen as pro-Western and cooperative with U.S. policy, but his administration faced growing public dissatisfaction over corruption and ineffective governance.

By 1965, American policymakers regarded both Macapagal and his challenger Ferdinand Marcos as safe choices in terms of alignment with U.S. interests. While predicting that Macapagal would likely win, the CIA wrote: “He might take a more independent position vis-a-vis the US, but would continue friendly US-Philippine relations.” The Agency noted the peculiar nature of the election: “This is the first time the Filipinos have conducted an election without the direct and at least to some extent, steadying influence of United States involvement…” At this time, U.S. strategic priorities were shifting toward intensifying involvement in Vietnam, and the Philippines was seen as a crucial ally in Southeast Asia. The overriding American objective was to secure the new president’s backing for the Vietnam War effort, something Marcos would later provide through troop deployments and diplomatic support.

Smith, reflecting on the CIA’s campaign decades later, believed the Agency’s budget of $250,000 ($2.78 million today) for the 1959 election had been insufficient in terms of printing ballots. $50,000 of the budget went to Macapagal for providing the CIA with “political information through a deep-cover agent for a number of years.” Smith was upset at how politics in the Philippines turned out: “I’m still bitter. If only we'd had the guts to stick by Magsaysay’s boys. They were really quite different from the Marcos crowd, the landed elite.” He believed the Agency had failed at stopping Marcos’ rise, beginning with the 1959 elections. “1959 was a beauty contest,” he described. “That made him presidential timber...I felt he was a fairly cagey fellow with not a great deal of scruples. He played things very, very close to the chest.”

Rise to Power

In 1954, after a brief courtship sparked by a chance meeting, the ambitious congressman Ferdinand Marcos married Imelda Romualdez, combining two powerful political families. Imelda proved an effective and glamorous political partner—campaigning tirelessly, charming politicians’ wives, and building a network of loyal “Blue Ladies.” By 1965, Marcos was determined to become president. When the incumbent Macapagal sought re-election, Marcos switched parties to the Nationalists and used lavish spending, hospitality, and tight control of the convention venue to secure the nomination. He persuaded influential politician Fernando Lopez to be his running mate through Imelda’s personal appeal.

The campaign was bitter and personal. Liberals accused Marcos of corruption, fraud, and shady wartime claims, while he criticized Macapagal’s weak leadership and failure to curb pervasive graft. Philippine politics at the time was awash in bribery, smuggling, and voter-buying, with their Congress often complicit. Marcos won 51.94% of the total 7,610,051 votes cast. The CIA noted that the electorate wanted honest government and that rural poverty, inequality, and corruption posed risks for instability. Instead of addressing these problems, Marcos’ rule deepened corruption and widened inequality, which for Marcos was to his personal benefit.

Imelda dazzled Washington society with her beauty, gowns, jewelry, and singing, becoming the focus of White House banquets and high-society press coverage. She maneuvered into New York’s top cultural events, including the Metropolitan Opera’s opening, where her presence was bought and staged for maximum visibility. The Marcoses mixed with political and financial power brokers, from LBJ and Lady Bird Johnson to the Rockefellers and Time-Life executives, while Ferdinand sought prestigious honorary degrees.

Behind the scenes, Imelda battled manic-depressive tendencies, expressed in spending sprees and relentless activity. She and her Blue Ladies staged opulent receptions across the U.S., and in Manila she orchestrated a month-long crash effort to beautify the city, hide slums, and prepare for the 1966 Manila Summit of Southeast Asian leaders. The summit’s climax was an extravagant “Barrio Fiesta” with lanterns, flowers, music, and native delicacies, designed to impress foreign dignitaries.

At a White House dinner in May 1968, President Lyndon Johnson called Imelda Marcos the “jewel of the Pacific.” Imelda’s demands—whether for access to elite events, cultural pageantry, or her son Bongbong’s visit to Cape Kennedy—were indulged. Yet, as a letter from a Filipino farmer reminded, this glamour masked widespread neglect and poverty in the countryside, a reality ignored by both U.S. leaders and the Marcos regime. A CIA psychological profile of Marcos developed in 1969 estimated that by that point he had stolen several hundred million dollars. The Agency found this practice to be traditional; his “massive personal enrichment while in office” was “a natural outgrowth of his country’s tradition of putting loyalty to one’s family and friends ahead of all other considerations,” according to author John Marks’ synopsis. A scandal would soon emerge that would consume the attention of both governments, but from a completely different, surprising source.

Dovie Beams

“When you stood up and I saw your legs, I knew that I was in love with you.” Fred did not mince words in approaching aspiring American actress Dovie Beams, who was in the Philippines to work on a film project in December 1968, but she did not know who was behind it. Beams did not recognize this man, who was introduced to her as Fred. He also complimented her eyes and pulled his chair close to her at a cocktail party at a heavily guarded house in Greenhills. After the attendees dispersed, they spoke alone for two hours. When Beams explained how she did not date lawyers, Fred responded, “I don’t think you are going to like the work that I do…I have something to do with the legal profession—I am the President of the Philippines.” The revelation did not register for Beams at first and she only replied: “You’re what?” She had taken note of how others had stood up and shown him respect when he had entered the room. Now Marcos was pulling back her long brown hair and planting a gentle kiss on the back of her neck.

Beams was 36 years old, though with a youthful appearance she claimed to be 23. Born Dovie Leona Osborne in Nashville, Tennessee, she briefly married Edward Boehms and had a daughter named Dena. She divorced Boehms in 1962 and moved to Hollywood, keeping his last name but modifying it to Beams. She had been warned that aspiring actresses were sometimes lured to the Philippines with fake auditions for parts, only to be drugged and raped. Instead of falling victim to this scheme, she managed to secure a film role and carry out a secret affair with the most powerful man in the country.

Early on in the affair, she was covertly smuggled into the guarded mansion that housed the presidential bedroom. Marcos arranged further trysts at their Greenhills hideaway. Marcos indulged Beams’ wish to visit Hong Kong to shop for pearls, arranging for her and her friend Joyce Reese to travel there on New Year’s Eve 1968. Marcos booked them luxury suites at the Peninsula Hotel and recommended a jeweler. They were encouraged to select anything they wanted, resulting in Beams receiving an emerald ring, matching pearls, and other fine jewelry. Reese also selected lavish pieces. Beams bought Marcos a flamingo-pink silk robe as a gift. The palace security guards spent part of their time deceiving the First Lady: “Whenever Imelda became suspicious,” a guard explained, “she ordered us to drive her around Manila searching for her husband or his car. We always knew where the president was, so we always drove her somewhere else.”

Beams planned to return to Beverly Hills for a film commitment, but Marcos, wanting to keep her in the Philippines, proposed to have her star a movie there based on his wartime exploits, with Beams playing his former love. She was given the lead role of Isabella, a Filipina, in the film Maharlika, a $3 million ($26.4 million today) war epic. Before she left, Marcos gave her an orchid and $10,000 ($88,000 today) in U.S. cash. He also sent her correspondence using a pseudonym: “Each passing moment away from you is torture no earthly mind can conjure,” he wrote. “I suffer all these so I may savor your love again when you return. For that will be all that will sustain me, that you will be here again soon.”

Soon after returning to the U.S., Beams was involved in a serious car accident, which put her in the hospital for three weeks. Marcos sent his associate, Potenciano Ilusorio, to assist her and discuss the film, while Ilusorio also pursued her romantically: “You know,” he told her, “you are the kind of girl I have always looked for.” She firmly rejected his advances.

In February 1969, Beams returned to the Philippines to find that Marcos had lavishly renovated the Greenhills, San Juan house where they first met, transforming it into their private love nest. The home featured luxury furnishings, tropical landscaping, a swimming pool, and a large staff funded through Marcos’ business cronies. Marcos spent significant time there, often staying overnight when his wife Imelda was away. Marcos proposed having a child with Beams and she agreed, but she secretly took birth control pills. Upon discovering the bottle of pills, Marcos threw them away in a fit of rage, later pleading with her: “Please have a baby for me. I have never said please to anybody like this before.”

A publicity campaign was launched to make Beams a star, including a staged romance with actor Pepito Rodriguez to divert attention from her real relationship with Marcos. After filming ended, Beams gifted cast members gold medallions commissioned by Marcos, inscribed with wartime symbols and the phrase: “That’s the trouble with love. You don’t know if it’s real until it’s over.”

In May 1969, Marcos invited Beams’ mother and her daughter Dena to Manila. They toured Malacañang Palace, played golf, and received lavish praise from Marcos, who openly declared his love for Beams and suggested Dena marry his son, Bongbong. The family enjoyed luxurious outings, including a shopping trip to Hong Kong worth $5,000, a helicopter tour over the city of Tagaytay and the island of Corregidor.

In July 1969, President Richard Nixon flew to Manila, where Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos were waiting with a carefully staged welcome. Locals lined the six-and-a-half-mile route from the airport to the presidential palace, waving American flags and tossing rose petals. Placards hailed Nixon’s role in the moon landing with slogans like FLY US ALSO TO THE MOON, MR. NIXON. The enthusiasm, however, was not unanimous—outside the American embassy, peasants and students carried flaming bamboo torches and shouted slogans denouncing U.S. involvement in Asia and calling for “Asia for the Asians.” Violent incidents preceded the visit, including grenade attacks on U.S. facilities and a Molotov cocktail blast that killed a teenager viewing a moon-landing exhibit. With the Philippine presidential election months away, and no incumbent having ever been re-elected since independence, Marcos sought any advantage. Nixon’s mere presence, the U.S. embassy reported, would be read by average voters as an American endorsement.

While Marcos campaigned for re-election, his time with Beams grew limited. Beams left for Los Angeles for the dubbing of Maharlika. Her first onscreen appearance in film occurred that year with a role in the B-movie Wild Wheels. Small newspapers in the United States contained brief notices about the soon-to-be-forgotten film, such as The Gadsden Times in its October 26, 1969 issue: “Robert Dix is the leader of an outlaw motorcycle gang who tries to take over Dovie Beams, girl friend of rival dunebuggy club leader in ‘Wild Wheels’ which is now showing at the Rebel Drive-In.”

Marcos recorded folk songs for her and took intimate nude photos of her to keep as mementos while she was away. With widespread protests accusing him of cheating, Marcos appeared to Beams to be increasingly withdrawn and erratic. She asked his trusted military officer Fabian Ver, “Colonel Ver, has he lost his mind?” After winning a controversial second term, Marcos admitted to Beams that he had instigated student riots to justify martial law and was preparing to leave the country secretly. Political tensions forced Marcos to move out of their shared house in Greenhills, which was later occupied by his former girlfriend Carmen Ortega. Beams moved to another residence, unsure of Marcos’ true intentions or the future. Throughout this period, Marcos exhibited signs of stress and paranoia—talking and screaming in his sleep, losing his appetite, and being fearful. Beams was to be at his beck and call, as he made clear to her: “Why weren’t you home,” he asked her one day. “I went shopping,” she explained. “I swam down in the pool all by myself,” Marcos complained. “Big deal,” Beams retorted. “How much time have I spent waiting for you?” Marcos made his desire clear: “Well, I just want you to be here when I get here.”

When First Lady Imelda learned of the affair through rumors found in press reports, she used her influence and loyal spies to sabotage the project, cutting scenes that glorified Beams and banning the film’s planned Manila screening. The film was shelved indefinitely. Imelda’s power play escalated in late 1970 when she ordered Immigration Commissioner Edmundo Reyes to deport Beams, which backfired and drew media attention. “I won’t be insulted this way,” she told Reyes when confronted at the Manila Hilton. “I’d leave tonight if I liked to on my own free will but I won’t be deported because I’ve not committed a crime here and I’m not an undesirable alien.”

Escalation and Exposé

Soon afterwards, three of Marcos’ cronies took Beams to a suite in the Savoy Hotel under the false pretext of discussing her film contract. Once inside the room, the threats began. She had told them she had tapes of President Marcos to protect her own interests, she claimed. They twisted her arm and shone a light in her face during the interrogation. Imelda would cut her throat if she caused trouble in the Philippines, they warned. In Beams’ view, the affair was over. “She has no reason to rock the boat with me. Listen, doesn’t she know what I have done for her? I have walked away from the situation. I haven’t opened my mouth. I can’t see that she’s got anything against me.” They explained what could follow: “Oh, well, you know, torture—all that sort of stuff.” She could be placed on a boat unconscious and sent to Hong Kong, they explained. Even if she returned to her home in Beverly Hills, “it won’t make any difference because we have men out there and it will look like an accident, and no one will ever know the difference.” Beams was unconcerned: “Look, I have evidence in a sealed envelope in the hands of my attorney. If anything happens to me, if I were you guys I wouldn’t want to find out who else it is going to be.” The trio looked at each other with a perplexed expression and decided to release her from their illegal detention. She needed to forget the entire ordeal, they counseled, and cease causing trouble in the country.

Beams did the opposite and took her secret affair public. At a press conference she called in November 1970, Beams explained to the gathered reporters that she had sex tapes involving her and President Marcos that she had surreptitiously recorded under their bed. The reporters leaned in, forming a semi-circle, as a tape recorder was set on the table—then, in a charged silence, the room braced itself for the explosive recording that began to play.