Энди МакНаб. Последний свет(engl)
страница №4
... even had a bowling alley.I watched as a captain herded the trogs through the doors, ticking them
off on a clipboard as they passed into the large 1960s glass building.
Trainers came back with a nervous-looking Crab Air (R.A.F) movements
corporal. He probably didn't have a clue what was going on, just that he had
to escort some pissed-off looking civilian on to one of his nice aircraft.
He was told to wait short of the car as Trainers came and opened the rear
kerb side door. I could only see him from the chest down as his hand
beckoned me out.
As I shuffled my arse across the seat, Sundance called out, "Oil"
I waited, looking at the foot well
"Don't fuck up, boy."
I nodded: after our little talk on the way here, and the Yes Man's
lecture earlier, I'd got the message. I climbed out and nodded a greeting to
the Crab corporal.
We'd only gone a few paces when Sundance called to me yet again. I went
back and poked my head through the rear door, which Trainers had kept open.
The roar of a transport jet made him shout and me move back into the car, my
knees on the seat. 'I forgot to ask, how is that wain of yours? I hear you
two were going to the fruit farm before she left. Little soft in the head as
well, is she?"
I couldn't hold it any longer: my body started to tremble.
He grinned, having got from me at last what he'd been gunning for all
trip.
"Maybe if you fuck up it'd be a good thing for the wee one you know,
we'd be doing her a favour."
He was enjoying every moment of this. I tried to remain calm, but it
wasn't working. He could see me boiling underneath.
"Hurts, eh?"
I did my best not to react.
"So, boy, just fuck off out of my face, and get it right this time."
Fuck it.
I launched myself forward off my knees and gripped his head with both
hands. In one movement I put my head down and pulled his face hard towards
the top of my crown. I made contact and it hurt, making me dizzy.
Once outside I threw both my arms up in surrender.
"It's OK, it's OK..."
I opened my eyes fully and looked in at Sundance. He was sunk into the
seat, hands covering his nose, blood running between his fingers. I started
towards the Crab, feeling a lot better as another bunch of Highlanders
walked past, trying not to take too much notice of what was going on.
Trainers looked as if he was trying to decide whether to drop me or
not. He still hadn't made up his mind as I virtually pushed the frightened
Crab into the building with me.
Fuck 'em, what did I have to lose?
NINE
Tuesday 5 September I ease the pistol into my waistband, my wet palms
sliding over the pistol grip.
If she's here I don't want her to see the weapon. Maybe she already
knows what's happened ... I put my mouth against a little gap between the
boxes.
"Kelly, you there? It's me, Nick. Don't be scared, I'm going to crawl
towards you. You'll see my head in a minute and I want to see a big smile
..."
I move boxes and squeeze through the gap, inching towards the back
wall.
"I'm going to put my head around the corner now, Kelly."
I take a deep breath and move my head around the back of the box,
smiling away but ready for the worst as sweat pours down my face.
She is there, facing me, eyes wide with terror, sitting, curled up in a
foetal position, rocking her body backwards and forwards, holding her hands
over her ears, looking so vulnerable and helpless.
"Hello."
She recognizes me, but just carries on rocking, staring at me with
wide, wet, scared eyes.
"Mummy and Daddy can't come and get you just now, but you can come with
me.
Daddy told me it would be OK. Are you going to come with me, Kelly? Are
you?"
"Sir, sir?" I opened my eyes to see a very concerned flight attendant.
"You
OK, sir? Can I get you some water or something?"
My sweaty palms slid on the armrests as I pushed myself upright in my
seat. She poured from a litre bottle into a plastic glass.
"Could I take the bottle, please?"
It was handed to me with an anxious smile and I thanked her, taking it
in a shaking, wet hand before getting it rapidly down my neck. I wiped my
sweaty face with my spare hand. It had been part of the same bad dream I'd
had on the Tristar. Shit, I must be really knackered. I peeled the
sweatshirt from my skin and sorted myself out.
We had just hit cruising altitude on the four-and-a-bit-hour flight
from Miami to Panama City, scheduled to land at about 11.40 a.m. local,
which was the same time zone as the US east coast and five hours behind the
UK. My window seat was next to Central America's most antisocial citizen, a
mid-thirties Latino woman with big hair and lots of stiff lacquer to keep it
that way. I doubted her skull could even touch the headrest, the stuff was
on so thick. She was dressed in PVC, leather-look, spray-on jeans and a
denim-style jacket patterned with black and silver tiger stripes, and stared
at me in disgust, sucking her teeth, as I sorted myself out and downed the
last of the water.
It was her turn to get her head down now as I read the tourist-guide
pages in the inflight magazine. I always found them invaluable for getting
an idea of wherever I was going on fast-balls like this. Besides, it got me
away from the other stuff in my head, and into thinking about the job, the
mission, what I was here for. I'd tried to buy a proper guide book to Panama
in Miami airport, but it seemed there wasn't much call for that sort of
thing.
The magazine showed wonderful pictures of exotic birds and smiling
Indian children in canoes, and stuff I already knew but wouldn't have been
able to put so eloquently.
"Panama is the most southern of the Central American countries, making
the long, narrow country the umbilical cord joining South and Central
America. It is in the shape of an S bordered on the west by Costa Rica, on
the east by Colombia, and has roughly the same land mass as Ireland."
It went on to say that most people, and that included myself until my
days in Colombia, thought that Panama's land boundaries were north and
south. That was wrong: the country runs west to east. Facts like that were
important to me if I had to leave in a hurry. I wouldn't want to find myself
heading for Colombia by mistake; out of the frying pan and into the fire.
The only way to go was west, to Costa Rica, the land of cheap plastic
surgery and diving holidays. I knew that, because I'd read it in the waiting
room of the Moorings.
Tiger Lil had fallen asleep and was snoring big-time, twisting in her
seat, and farting every minute or so. I unscrewed both the air-conditioning
tubes above us and aimed them in her direction to try to divert the smell.
The three pages of bumf and pictures went on to tell me that Panama was
best known internationally for its canal, joining the Caribbean and the
Pacific, and its 'vibrant banking services'. Then just a few more pictures
of colourful flowers, with captions reminding us what a wonderful place it
was and how lucky we all were to be flying there today. Not surprisingly,
they didn't say anything about Operation Just Cause the US invasion in '89
to oust General Noriega, or the drug trafficking that makes the banking
system so vibrant.
All the wonderful places listed to visit were exclusively west of
Panama City, which was called in here 'the interior'. There was no mention
at all about what lay to the east, especially the Darien Gap, the jungle
area bordering Colombia. I knew that Darien Province is like a low-intensity
war zone. Narco traffickers and guerrillas usually one and the same thing
move in big groups between the two countries, armed to the teeth. There are
even a few DMPs as the locals try to cash in on the industry, and Panamanian
border police buzz around the sky in helicopter gunships, locked in a
conflict they will never win.
Some adventurous types travel down there to bird-watch or hunt for rare
orchids, and become hostages or dead after stumbling across things the
traffickers would have preferred they hadn't.
I also knew that the narcos, especially PARC, had been getting more
adventurous now that the US had stood down from Panama. They were making
incursions further west into the country, and with only about 150 miles
between the Colombian border and Panama City, I bet everyone was flapping
big-time.
After flicking though the rest of the mag and not finding anything of
interest, just glossy ads, I used it to fan my face as Tiger Lil farted and
grunted once more.
Looking down at the endless blue of the Caribbean sea, I thought about
yesterday's call to Josh. He'd been right to fuck me off; it was maybe the
eighth or ninth time I'd done it to him. Kelly did need stability and an as
normal-as-possible upbringing. That was precisely why she was there with
him, and the not-calling-when-I-should, calling-when-I-shouldn't thing
wasn't helping her at all.
I should have been there today to sign over my guardianship of Kelly
completely to him, to change the present arrangement of joint
responsibility. In her father's will, Josh and I had both been named as
guardians, but I was the one who'd landed up with her. I couldn't even
remember how that had come about, it just sort of had.
Food was being served and I tried to extract my tray from the armrest.
It was proving difficult as Tiger Lil had overflowed her own space. I shook
her gently and she opened one blurry eye before turning over as if I was to
blame.
My food turned up in its prepacked tray and made me think of Peter,
getting all the doss-house boys rapping, "Krishna, yo! Krishna, yo! Krishna,
yo! Hari rama."
I peeled back the foil to see a breakfast of pasta. Wielding a fork and
moving my arms very carefully so as not to stir up my new friend, I decided
to make a donation to those Krishna boys if ever I got back alive. The
thought about Peter surprised me; it had popped up out of nowhere like a lot
of other stuff lately. I wanted to get back in the comfort zone of work as
quickly as possible, and cut away from that stuff before I found myself
joining the Caravan Club.
As I threw pasta down my neck, I got thinking about the job and the
little information Sundance had given me. The pass number for the meet with
Aaron and Carrie Yanklewitz was thirteen. The system is easy and works well.
Numbers are far better than confirmation statements because they're easier
to remember. I once had a confirmation statement that went, The count is
having kippers with your mother tonight and I was supposed to reply, "The
kippers are restless." Who the fuck made that one up?
Pass numbers are also especially good for people who aren't trained in
tradecraft or, like me, are crap at remembering confirmation statements. For
all I knew these people could be either. I didn't know if they were
experienced operators who knew how to conduct themselves on the ground, just
contacts who were going to help me out with bed and breakfast, or big-timers
who couldn't keep their mouths shut.
I didn't like anyone else being involved in anything I did, but this
time I had no choice. I didn't know where the target lived or the target's
routine, and I didn't have a whole lot of time to find out.
After eating I sat back and pushed myself against the seat to relax my
sore stomach muscles. Pain shot across my ribcage to give me further
reminders of the strength and endurance of Caterpillar boots.
Trying to relieve the pain in my chest as I moved, I faced slowly away
from Tiger Lil and lowered the window blind. Below me green jungle now
stretched as far as the horizon, looking from this altitude like the world's
biggest broccoli patch.
I pulled the blanket over my head to cut out the smell.
TEN
The flight touched down ten minutes early, at eleven thirty local time.
One of the first off, I followed the signs for baggage reclaim and Customs,
past banks of chrome and brown leatherette seating.
After three hours of air-conditioning, the heat hit me like a wall. In
my hand were the two forms we'd been given to fill in on the aircraft, one
for Immigration, one for Customs. Mine said that Nick Hoff was staying at
the Marriott there is always a Marriott.
Apart from the clothes I stood up in jeans, sweatshirt and bomber
jacket the only items I had with me were my passport and wallet containing
five hundred US dollars. It had come from an ATM in Miami departures,
courtesy of my new Royal Bank of Scotland Visa card in my crap cover name.
Feeling like one of the Camden lot, I'd looked at myself in a toilet
mirror:
sleep creases all over my face and hair sticking up like the lead
singer in an in die band.
I needn't have worried. Passing through Immigration turned out to be a
breeze, even without any luggage. I just handed over my declaration form to
a bored, middle-aged man and he waved me through: I guessed they'd hardly be
on the lookout for anyone trying to smuggle drugs into Central America.
I also shot through Customs, because all I had was nothing. I should
really have bought a piece of hand luggage in Miami to look normal, but my
head must have been elsewhere. Not that it mattered; the Panamanian Customs
boys were obviously in the same place.
I headed towards the exit, fitting my new Leatherman on to my belt. I'd
bought it in Miami to replace the one Sundance had nicked from me, and
airport security had taken it off me and packed it into a Jiffy-bag in case
I tried to use it to hijack the plane. I'd had to collect it from the
luggage service desk when we landed.
The small arrivals area was hosting the noise-and-crush Olympics.
Spanish voices hollered, Tannoys barked, babies cried, mobiles rang with
every tune known to man. Steel barriers funnelled me deeper into the hall. I
walked on, scanning the faces of waiting families and taxi drivers, some
holding up name cards. Women outnumbered men, either very skinny or very
overweight but not much in between.
Many held bunches of flowers, and screaming two-year-olds mountaineered
all over them. Three or four deep against the barriers, they looked like
fans at a Ricky Martin concert.
At last, amongst the surge of people, I spotted a square foot of white
card with the name Tanklewitz' in capitals in marker pen. The long-haired
man holding it looked different from the clean-cut CIA operator I'd been
expecting. He was slim, about my height, maybe five ten, and probably in his
mid- to late fifties.
He was dressed in khaki shorts and a matching photographer's waistcoat
that looked as if it doubled as a han drag at the local garage. His
salt-and-pepper hair was tied back in a ponytail, away from a tanned face
that had a few days' silver growth. His face looked worn: life had obviously
been chewing on it.
I walked straight past him to the end of the barrier, wanting to tune
in to the place first, and watch this man for a while before I gave myself
over to him. I carried on towards the glass wall and sliding exit doors
about ten metres ahead.
Beyond them was a car park, where blinding sunlight bounced off scores
of windscreens. The Flying Dogs hot dog and nacho stall to the left of the
doors seemed as good a place as any to stop; I leant against the glass and
watched my contact getting pushed and shoved in the melee.
Aaron1 presumed it was him was trying to check every new male arrival
who emerged from Customs, whilst also checking every few seconds that the
name card was the right way up before trying to thrust it above the crowd
once more. The taxi drivers were old hands at this game and were able to
stand their ground, but Aaron kept being buffeted by the surge of bodies. If
this had been the January sales, he'd have come away with a pair of odd
socks.
Now and again I caught sight of his tanned, hairless legs. They were
muscular and scratched around the calves, and the soles of his feet were
covered by old leather Jesus sandals, not the more usual sports ones. This
wasn't holiday attire, that was for sure. He looked more like a farmhand or
hippie throwback than any kind of doctor.
As I watched and tuned in, Tiger Lil burst into the hall, heaving an
enormous squeaky-wheeled suitcase behind her. She screamed in unison with
two equally large black women as they jumped all over each other, kissing
and cuddling.
The arrivals area was packed with food and drink stalls, all producing
their own smells that bounced off the low ceiling and had nowhere to escape
to. Brightly dressed Latinos, blacks, whites and Chinese all clamoured to
outdo each other in the loudest shout competition. My guess was that Aaron
would lose that as well as the keep-your-place-in-the-crowd contest. He was
still bobbing around like a cork on a stormy sea.
The air-conditioning might have been working, but not well enough to
handle the heat of so many bodies. The stone floor was wet with
condensation, as if it had just been mopped, and the bottom foot or so of
the glass wall was fogged with moisture. The heat was already getting to me.
I felt sweat leak from my greasy skin and my eyes were stinging. Taking off
my jacket, I leant against the glass once more, my clammy arm sticking to my
sweatshirt.
A group of five stony-faced policemen hovered about in severely pressed
khaki trousers and badge-festooned, short-sleeved shirts. They looked very
macho with their hands resting on their holstered pistols and feet tapping
in black patent leather shoes. Apart from that, the only things moving were
their peaked hats as they checked out three tight-jeaned and high heeled
Latino women passing by
Sitting on a bench to the left of the policemen was the only person
here who wasn't sweating and out of control. A thirty something white woman,
she looked like GI Jane, with short hair, green fatigue cargos and a baggy
grey vest that came high up her neck. She still had her sunglasses on and
her hands were wrapped around a can of Pepsi.
Two things struck me as I looked around the hall. The first was that
virtually everybody seemed to have a mobile on their belt or in their hand.
The other was the men's shirts. Like the police uniforms, they were
dramatically pressed and the arm crease went all the way over the shoulder
and up to the collar. Maybe there was only one laundry in town.
After about a quarter of an hour the crowd was thinning as the last of
the loved ones trickled through and the taxi fares got picked up. Calm
descended, but probably only until the next flight arrived.
Aaron was now in my direct line of sight, standing with the remaining
few still waiting at the barrier. Under his dirty waistcoat he had a faded
blue T-shirt with some barely readable Spanish on the front. I watched as he
held up his card to the last few passengers, even leaning over the barrier,
straining to read the flight numbers on their luggage tags.
It was now time to cut away from everything else going on in my head
except work, the mission. I hated that word, it sounded far too Army, but I
was going to use it to keep my head where it should be.
I had one last check around the hall for anything unusual, then
realized that everything I saw fell into that category: the whole arrivals
area looked like a dodgy-characters convention. I started my approach.
I must have been about three steps away from his back as he thrust his
card under the nose of an American business suit pulling his bag on wheels
behind him.
"Mr. Yanklewitz?"
He spun round, holding the card against his chest like a schoolboy in
show-and tell He had bloodshot but very blue eyes, sunk into deep crow's
feet.
I was supposed to let him initiate conversation with a story that
involved a number, something like, "Oh, I hear you have ten bags with you?"
to which I would say, "No, I have three', that sort of thing. But I really
couldn't be bothered: I was hot, tired, and I wanted to get on.
"Seven."
"Oh, that would make me six then, I guess." He sounded a little
disappointed. He'd probably been working on his story all morning. |l I
smiled. There was an expectant pause: I was waiting for him to tell me what
to do next.
"Er, OK, shall we go, then?" His accent was soft, educated American.
"Unless of course you want to-' I don't want to do anything, apart from
go with you."
"OK. Please, this way."
We started towards the exit and I fell into step on his left. He folded
the card as he went, moving faster than I'd have liked. I didn't want us
looking unnatural but, then, what was I worrying about in this madhouse?
On the other side of the automatic exit doors was the service road for
drop-offs and pick-ups. Beyond that was the car park, and in the distance,
under a brilliant blue sky, were lush green rugged mountains. Out there was
virgin ground to me, and unless I had no choice, I never liked entering the
unknown with out having a look first.
"Where are we going?"
I was still checking out the car park. I didn't know if he was looking
at me or not as he answered, in a very low voice, "That kinda depends on, er
... my wife is-' That's Carrie, right?"
'Yes, Carrie."
I'd forgotten to introduce myself.
"Do you know my name?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his head turn towards me, so I
turned as well. His blue eyes seemed jumpy, and focused slightly to one side
of mine.
"No, but if you don't want to tell me, that's fine. Whatever you feel
safe with, whatever is best for you."
He didn't look scared, but was definitely ill-at-ease. Maybe he could
smell the fuck-up value on me.
I stopped and held out my hand.
"Nick." Better to be friendly to the help rather than alienate them:
you get better results that way. It was a small lesson the Yes Man could
have done with taking on board.
There was an embarrassed smile from him, displaying a not-too-good set
of teeth, discoloured by too much coffee or tobacco. He held out his hand.
"Aaron. Pleased to meet you, Nick."
It was a very large hand with hard skin, but the handshake was gentle.
Small scars covered its surface; he was no pen-pusher. His nails were dirty
and jagged, and there was a dull gold wedding band and a multicoloured kids'
Swatch on his left.
"Well, Aaron, as you can see, I haven't packed for a long stay. I'll
just get my job done and be out of the way by Friday. I'll try not to be a
pain in the arse while I'm here. How does that sound?"
His embarrassed grin gave me the feeling that it sounded good on both
counts.
Still, he was generous in his reply.
"Hey, no problem. You did kinda throw me, you know. I wasn't expecting
an English guy."
I smiled and leant forward to tell him a secret.
"Actually I'm American, it's a disguise."
There was a pause as he searched my eyes.
"Joke, right?"
I nodded, hoping it would break the ice a bit.
"I was expecting to see Carrie as well."
He pointed behind me.
"She's right here."
I turned to see GI Jane approaching us. She greeted me with a smile and
an out thrust hand.
"Hi, I'm Carrie."
Her hair was dark, cut into the nape of her neck. She was maybe mid- to
late thirties just a few years younger than me. There were a few lines
coming from behind the lenses of her dark glasses, and small creases in the
side of her mouth as she spoke.
I shook her firm hand.
"I'm Nick. Finished your Pepsi, then?" I didn't know if she'd seen me
waiting, not that it really mattered.
"Sure, it was good." Her manner was brisk, sort of aggressive, and
wouldn't have been out of place on Wall Street. Like Aaron's, her voice was
educated but then, anyone who pronounced their aitches sounded educated to
me.
She stood by Aaron and they certainly made an unusual pair. Maybe I'd
got this wrong. Maybe they were father and daughter. He had a slight pot
belly and showed his age; she had a body that was well toned and looked
after.
People poured in and out. The sound of aircraft and a gust of heat
enveloped us each time the doors slid open.
Carrie shrugged.
"What happens now?"
They were waiting for instructions.
"You haven't done this before, have you?"
Aaron shook his head.
"First time. All we know is that we pick you up and you tell us the
rest."
"OK do you have any imagery yet?"
She nodded.
"It's satellite, I pulled it off the web last night. It's at the
house."
"How far away is that?"
"If the rain holds off, four hours maybe. If not, anything over five.
We're talking boondocks."
"How far to the other guy's house?"
"An hour thirty from here, maybe two. It's the other side of the city
it's in the boonies, too."
I'd like to see his place first, then back to yours. Will I be able to
get close enough to have a good look?"
There wasn't enough time to spend maybe ten hours on the road, or even
prepare myself for a day under the canopy. I'd have to get on and do the CTR
of the house first, since it was so close, and then, on the way back to
their place, get planning what I was going to do next, and how.
She nodded, confirming with Aaron at the same time.
"Sure, but like I said, it's in the forest." She turned to Aaron.
"You know what? I'll go pick up Luce from the dentist and meet you two
at home."
There was a pause as if there was more to say, as if she expected me to
pick up on what she'd said. But I didn't care that much who Luce was. It
wasn't important at the moment, and I was sure to be told soon anyway.
"Ready when you are."
We headed outside and into the oppressive heat. I screwed up my eyes
against the sun, which burned straight through the cheap acrylic of my
sweatshirt on my shoulders and the back of my neck.
She walked the other side of Aaron. There was no wedding ring, no watch
or any other jewellery on either of her hands. Her hair was beyond dark, it
was jet black, and her skin was only lightly tanned, not dark and leathery
like Aaron's.
Her armpits were shaved and, for some reason, I wouldn't have expected
that.
Maybe I'd been harbouring images of New Age travellers from the moment
I saw Aaron.
The service road was jammed with mini-buses, taxis and cars dropping
off passengers, with porters hustling the drop-offs for business. The noise
was just as loud out here as it had been in the hall, with vehicle horns
sounding off and taxi drivers arguing over parking spaces.
The dazzling sunshine felt as if I had a searchlight pointed straight
into my eyes. I squinted like a mole and looked down as they started to feel
gritty.
Aaron pulled a pair of John Lennon sunglasses from a pocket of his
waistcoat and put them on as he pointed to our half right.
"We're over here."
We crossed the road to what might have been a parking lot in any US
shopping mall. Japanese and American SUVs were lined up alongside saloons
and people carriers and none of them looked more than one or two years old.
It surprised me: I'd been expecting worse.
Carrie broke away from us and headed towards the other side of the car
park.
"See you both later."
I nodded goodbye. Aaron didn't say a word, just nodded with me.
The ground was wet with rain and sunlight glinted off the tarmac. My
eyes were still half closed when we reached a blue, rusty, mud-covered Mazda
pickup.
This is us."
This was more what I'd been expecting. It had a double cab, with an
equally old fibreglass Bac Pac cover over the rear that turned it into a
van. The sheen of the paintwork had been burned off long ago by tropical
heat. Aaron was already inside, leaning over to open my door.
It was like climbing into an oven. The sun had been beating down on the
windscreen and it was so hot inside it was hard to breathe. I was just
pleased that there was an old blanket draped over the seats to protect us
from the almost molten PVC upholstery, though the heat was still doing the
business.
A floating ball compass was stuck to the windscreen, and fixed to the
dash was a small open can half filled with green liquid. Judging by the
picture of flowers on the label it had been air-freshener in a previous
life.
"Will you excuse me, Nick? I need a moment. Won't be long."
I kept my door open, trying to let some air in as he closed his and
disappeared behind the Mazda.
It had only been a hundred metres from the terminal building but I was
already sweating. My jeans stuck to my thighs and a bead of sweat rolled
down the bridge of my nose and added to the misery. At least the
air-conditioning would kick in when he started the engine.
I caught four Aarons and Carries in the broken wing mirror, and
standing next to her, four wagons. It was also a pickup, but a much older
style than the Mazda, maybe an old Chevy, with a rounded bonnet and wings
and a flatbed that had wooden slats up the sides, the sort of thing you'd
transport livestock in. They were arguing as they stood by the opened
driver's door. She waved her hands in the air and Aaron kept shaking his
head at her.
I changed view and looked out at the green mountains in the distance
and thought of the months I'd spent living in that stuff, and waited for
them to finish as a jet-lagged headache started to brew.
A minute or two later he jumped into the cab as if nothing had
happened.
"Sorry about that, Nick, just some things I needed from the store."
By the way she'd reacted they must have been pretty expensive. I nodded
as if I hadn't seen a thing, we closed our doors and he started up.
Having kept my window closed to help the air-conditioner spark up, I
saw Aaron frantically winding his down as he manoeuvred out of the parking
space, using just his fingertips to steer as the wheel must have been hot
enough to peel skin. He sounded almost apologetic.
"You need to belt up. They're pretty tough on that round here."
Glancing at my closed window he added, "Sorry, no air."
I wound it down and both of us gingerly fastened belt buckles as hot as
a tumble-dried coin. There was no sign of Carrie as we drove out of the car
park;
she must have driven away straight after being given her shopping list.
I lowered the sun visor as we passed a group of young black guys
dressed in football shorts armed with large yellow buckets, sponges and
bottles of washing up liquid. They seemed to be doing a roaring trade; their
pools of soapy water on the tarmac just lay there, not evaporating in the
high humidity. The Mazda could have done with their services, inside as well
as out. Its worn rubber mats were covered in dried mud; sweet wrappers were
scattered all over, some stuffed into my door pocket along with used tissues
and a half-eaten tube of mints. On the back seat lay yellowing copies of the
Miami Herald. Everything looked and smelt tired; even the PVC under the
blanket was ripped.
He was still looking nervous as we drove out of the airport and along a
dual carriage way The exhaust rattled under the wagon as we picked up speed,
and the open windows made no difference to the heat. Billboards advertising
everything from expensive perfumes to machined ball bearings and textile
factories were banged into the ground at random, fighting to be seen above
pampas grass nearly three metres tall each side of the road.
Less than two minutes later we had to stop at a toll booth and Aaron
handed over a US dollar bill to the operator.
"It's the currency here," he told me.
"It's called a Balboa."
I nodded as if I cared and watched the road become a newly laid dual
carriage way The sunlight rebounded off the light-grey concrete big time,
making my headache get a happy on.
Aaron could see my problem and rummaged in his door pocket.
"Here, Nick, want these?"
The sunglasses must have been Carrie's, with large oval lenses that
Jackie Onassis would have been proud of. They covered half my face. I
probably looked a right nugget, but they worked.
The jungle was soon trying to reclaim the land back from the pampas
grass either side of the carriage way at least on the areas that weren't
covered with breeze block and tin shacks. King-size leaves and vines spread
up telegraph poles and over fences like a green disease.
I decided to warm him up before I asked the important ones.
"How long have you lived here?"
"Always have. I'm a Zonian."
It must have been obvious that I didn't have a clue what he was on
about.
"I was born here in the Zone, the US Canal Zone. It's a ten-mile-wide
strip about sixteen K that used to bracket the whole length of the canal.
The US controlled the Zone from the early nineteen hundreds, you know."
There was pride in his voice.
"I didn't know that." I thought the US just used to have bases there,
not jurisdiction over a whole chunk of the country "My father was a canal
pilot. Before him, my grandfather started as a tug captain and made it to
tonnage surveyor you know, assessing the ships' weights to determine their
tolls. The Zone is home."
Now that we were moving at speed, the wind was hitting the right side
of my face. It wasn't that cool, but at least it was a breeze. The downside
was that we had to shout at each other over the wind rush and the flapping
of newspaper and blanket corners against the PVC.
"But you're an American, right?"
He gave a small, gentle laugh at my ignorance. Ivly grandfather was
born in Minneapolis, but my father was also born here, in the Zone. The US
have always been here, working for the canal authority or in the military.
This used to be the headquarters of Southern Command we've had up to
sixty-five thousand troops stationed here. But now, of course, everything's
gone."
The scenery was still very green, but now mostly grass. Much of the
land had been cleared and the odd flea-bitten cow was grazing away. When the
trees did come, they were the same size as European ones, not at all like
the massive hundred-foot-tall buttress trees I'd seen in primary jungle
further south in Colombia or South East Asia. This low canopy of leaf and
palm created secondary jungle conditions because sunlight could penetrate so
vegetation could grow between the tree-trunks. Tall grass, large palms and
creeping vines of all descriptions were trying their best to catch the rays.
"I read about that. It must be quite a shock after all those years."
Aaron nodded slowly as he watched the road.
"Yes, sir, growing up here was just like small-town USA," he enthused,
'apart from no air in the house there wasn't enough juice on the grid in
those days. But what the hell? It didn't matter. I'd come home from school
and wham! I'm right into the forest. Building forts, fishing for tarpon.
We'd play basketball, football, baseball, just like up north. It was Utopia,
everything we needed was in the Zone. You know what? I didn't even venture
into Panama City until I was fourteen, can you believe that?
For the Boy Scout jamboree." A smile of fondness for the good old days
played across his face as his grey ponytail fluttered in the wind.
"Of course I went north, to California, for my university years, came
back with my degree to lecture at the university. I still lecture, but not
so much now. That's where I met Carrie."
So she was his wife. I was pleased to have my curiosity satisfied, and
got a sudden burst of hope for the future if I ever reached old age.
What do you teach?"
As soon as he started to answer, I wished I hadn't bothered asking.
"Protecting the bio diversity of plants and wildlife. Forestry
conservation and management, that sort of thing. We have a cathedral of
nature here." He looked to his right, past me and up at the canopy and
grass-covered mountains in the far distance.
"You know what? Panama is still one of the richest ecological regions
on earth, a mother lode of bio diversity ..."
He gazed out again at the mountains and had a tree-hugging moment.
I could only see red and white communication masts the size of the
Eiffel Tower that seemed to have been positioned on every fourth peak.
"But you know what, Nick, we're losing it..."
Buildings started to come into view on both sides of the road.
They ranged from tin shacks with rotting rubbish piled up outside and
the odd mangy dog picking at the waste, to neat lines of not-quite-finished
brand new houses. Each was about the size of a small garage, with a flat red
tin roof over whitewashed breeze blocks. The construction workers were
stretched out in the shade, hiding from the midday sun.
Ahead, in the far distance, I began to make out a high-rise skyline
that looked like a mini Manhattan something else I hadn't been expecting.
I tried to get off the subject in case he turned into the Green version
of Billy Graham. I didn't like the idea of losing trees to concrete, or
anything else for that matter, but I didn't have enough commitment even to
listen, let alone do anything about it. That was why people like him were
needed, I supposed.
"Does Carrie lecture too?"
He shook his head slowly as he changed lanes to let a truck laden with
bottled water scream past.
"No, we have a small research deal from the university. That's why I
still have to lecture. We're not the Smithsonian Institute, you know. I wish
we were, sure do wish we were."
He wanted to get off the subject.
"You heard of PARC? The Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias Colombianas?"
I nodded and didn't mind talking about anything that let him feel at
ease, apart from tree-hugging.
"I hear they're crossing into Panama quite a lot now, with SOUTH COM
gone."
"Sure are. These are worrying times. It's not just the ecological
problems.
Panama couldn't handle PARC if they came in force. They're just too
strong."
He told me that the bombings, murders, kidnappings, extortion and
hijackings had always gone on. But lately, now that the US had withdrawn,
they'd been getting more adventurous. A month before the last US military
left Panama completely, they'd even struck in the city. They'd hijacked two
helicopters from an air base in the Zone, and flown them back home. Three
weeks later, six or seven hundred PARC attacked a Colombian naval base near
the Panamanian border, using the helicopters as fire support platforms.
There was a pause and I could see his face screw up as he worked out
what he wanted to say.
"Nick ..." He paused again. Something was bugging him.
"Nick, I want you to know, I'm not a spy, I'm not a revolutionary. I'm
just a guy who wants to carry out his work and live here peacefully. That's
all."
ELEVEN
I nodded.
"Like I said, I'll be out of here by Friday and try not to be a major
pain in the arse." It was somehow good to know that someone else was unhappy
with the situation.
He sort of smiled with me as we hit a causeway that cut across towards
the city, about 150 metres from the land. It reminded me of one of the road
links connecting the Florida Keys.
We passed a few rusty wriggly-tin shanty shacks built around concrete
sewage outlets discharging into the sea. Directly ahead, the tall, slim
tower blocks reared into the sky, their mirrored and coloured glass glinting
confidently in the sun.
Paying another Balboa to exit the causeway, we hit a wide boulevard
with a tree lined and manicured-grass meridian. Set into the kerbs were
large storm drains to take the tropical weather. The road was packed with
manic cars, trucks, buses and taxis. Everyone was driving as if they had
just stolen the things. The air was filled with the smell of exhaust fumes
and the sound of revving traffic and horns being leant on. A helicopter flew
low and fast somewhere above us. Aaron still had to shout to make himself
heard, even at this lower speed. He jerked his head at mini Manhattan.
"Where the money is."
It looked like it. A lot of well-known banks from Europe and the USA,
as well as quite a few dodgy-sounding ones, had gleaming glass towers with
their name stuck all over them. It was a dressy area: men walking the
pavements were dressed smartly in trousers, pressed shirts with creases up
to the collar, and ties. The women wore businesslike skirts and blouses.
Aaron waved his hand out of the window as he avoided a beer delivery
truck who wanted to be exactly where we were.
"Panama is trying to be the new Singapore," he said, taking his eyes
off the traffic, which worried me a bit.
"You know, offshore banking, that kind of stuff."
As we passed trendy bars, Japanese restaurants, designer clothes shops
and a Porsche showroom, I smiled.
"I've read it's already pretty vibrant."
He tried to avoid a horn-blowing pickup full of swaying rubber plants.
"You could say that there's a lot of drug money being rinsed here. They
say the whole drug thing is worth more than ninety billion US a year that's
like twenty billion more than the revenues of Microsoft, Kellogg's and
McDonald's put together."
He braked sharply as a scooter cut in front of us. I put out my arms to
break the jolt and felt the hot plastic of the dashboard on my hands, as a
woman with a small child on the pillion diced with death. They were both
protected only by cycle helmets and swimming goggles as she squeezed between
us and a black Merc so she could turn off the main drag. Obviously an
everyday thing: Aaron just carried on talking.
"There's a big slice of that coming through here. Some of these banks,
hey, they just say, "Bring it on." Real crooks wear pinstripe, right?" He
smiled ruefully.
"Those traffickers are now the most influential special-interest group
in the world. Did you know that?"
I shook my head. No, I didn't know that. When I was in the jungle
fighting them, it was the last thing I needed to know. I also didn't know if
I was going to get out of this Mazda alive. If there were any driving
instructors in Panama, they obviously went hungry.
The traffic slowed a little then stopped completely, but the horns kept
going.
Green-fatigued policemen stood outside a department store in high-leg
boots and black body armour. The mirrored sunglasses under the peaks of
their baseball caps made them look like Israeli soldiers, and all the more
menacing for it.
Hanging round their necks were HK MP5s, and they wore low-slung leg
holsters.
The Parkerization on the 9mm machine-guns had worn away with age,
exposing the glinting steel underneath.
The traffic un choked and we started to move. The faces sticking out of
the bus ahead of us got a grandstand view of my Jackie Os and a few started
to smile at the dickhead in the Mazda.
"At least I've cheered some people up today."
"Especially as you're a rabiblanco," Aaron replied.
"That's what they call the ruling elite white asses."
The boulevard emerged from little Manhattan and hit the coastline,
following the sweep of a few Ks of bay. On our left was a marina, its sea
protection built from rocks the size of Ford Fiestas. Million-dollar motor
boats were parked amongst million-dollar yachts, all being lovingly cleaned
and polished by uniformed crews. In the bay, a fleet of old wooden fishing
boats was anchored round a sunken cargo ship, its two rusty masts and bow
jutting from the calm of the Pacific. Further out to sea, maybe three or
four Ks, a dozen or so large ships stood in line, pointing towards land,
their decks loaded with containers.
Aaron followed my gaze.
"They're waiting to enter the canal."
We swerved sharply to avoid a battered old Nissan saloon as it decided
to change lanes without telling anyone. I instinctively pushed down with my
braking foot.
This wasn't driving, this was a series of near-death experiences. There
were a lot of brakes being hit in front of us and we followed suit, skidding
slightly but coming to a halt without rear-ending the Nissan unlike someone
a few vehicles behind us. There was the tinkle of breaking glass and the
sound of buckling metal, followed by some irate Spanish.
Aaron looked like a small child.
"Sorry 'bout that."
The reason why we'd all stopped was now plain to see. A line of
pre-teen schoolkids in pairs and holding hands was crossing the road,
towards the promenade and the bay. The girls were all in white dresses, the
boys in blue shorts and white shirts. One of the teachers was shouting at a
taxi driver who complained at the delay, an old shaggy arm waving out of the
window back at her.
Now everyone seemed to be hitting their horns, as if that would change
anything.
The kids' faces were two distinct shapes, the same as in Colombia.
Those of Spanish descent had wild, curly black hair and olive skin, while
the straight black-haired Indians had more delicate features, slightly
flatter faces, smaller eyes and a browner complexion. Aaron grinned as he
watched the children cross, chattering to each other as if nothing was
happening around them.
"You have kids, Nick?"
"No." I shook my head. I didn't want to start getting into that sort of
conversation. The less he knew about me the better. A proper operator
wouldn't have asked, and it was strange being with someone who didn't know
the score.
Besides, after next week I wouldn't have my child anyway Josh would.
"Oh."
The kids were now being corralled by the teachers on the bay side of
the road.
Two girls, still holding hands, were staring at him, or my sunglasses,
I couldn't make out which. Aaron stuck his thumb to his nose and made a
face. They cross-eyed and thumbed back, giggling together because they'd
done it without the teachers seeing.
Aaron looked round at me.
"We have a girl, Luce. She'll be fifteen this November."
"Oh, nice." I just hoped he wasn't going to start getting photos out of
his wallet then I'd have to say how pretty she was and all that stuff, even
if she looked like she'd been given the good news with the flat of a shovel.
The traffic started moving once more. He waved at the kids as they
stuck their thumbs in their ears and flapped their fingers.
We fought our way through the traffic along the boulevard. To the right
was a run of large, Spanish colonial-type buildings that just had to be
government property. Fronted by tall, decorative wrought-iron fencing, they
were all immaculately painted, set back in acres of grass, waterfalls and
flagpoles, all flying the red, white and blue squares and stars of the
Panamanian flag. Laid out between the buildings were well-manicured public
parks with neat bushes and paths, and larger-than-life statues of
sixteenth-century Spanish guys in oval tin hats and pantaloons, pointing
their swords heroically towards the sea.
Soon we were passing the equally impressive American and
British embassies. Inside each compound, the Stars and Stripes and
Union Jack fluttered above the trees and high perimeter railings. The
thickness of the window glass indicated it wasn't just for show.
As well as knowing what direction you needed to head out of a country
when in the shit, it's also good to check on where your embassy is. I always
liked to know there was somewhere to run to if the wheels fell off.
Ambassadors don't take too kindly to deniable operators begging for help.
I'd have to jump the fence; they didn't let people like me in through the
front door. But once I was inside, it would take more than the security to
get me back on to the street.
We reached the end of the bay and what was obviously the rougher side
of town.
The buildings here had flaking, faded paint and some were derelict.
None the less, there was still a touch of civic pride. A metre-high wall ran
the length of the bay, more to stop people falling on to the beach than as a
sea defence.
It was decorated with blue mosaic tiles, and a gang of about ten women
in jeans and yellow T-shirts with "Municipad' stamped on the back were busy
scrubbing it with broom heads dipped in large buckets of soapy water. They
were also pulling up all the green stuff that was fighting its way between
the paving slabs. A couple of them seemed to be on their break, leaning
against the wall drinking the milk from a coconut and pink liquid from a
plastic bag with a straw.
Sticking out to sea for about a K in front of me was the peninsula on
which perched the old Spanish colonial town, a mishmash of ancient terra
cotta roofs huddled around the pristine white towers of a church. Aaron hung
a right that took us away from the bay and into an even more run-down area.
The road was bumpier and my headache worsened as the Mazda's suspension
creaked and groaned.
The buildings were low-level, flat-roofed, decaying tenement blocks.
Their once multicoloured facades had been bleached out by the sun, and the
high humidity had given them dark stains. Big cracks in the plaster exposed
the breeze blocks beneath.
The street narrowed and the traffic slowed. Pedestrians and scooters
threaded their way between the vehicles, and Aaron seemed to need all his
concentration to avoid hitting anyone. At least it shut him up for a while.
The sun was directly overhead now and seemed to push down on this part
of town, keeping a lid on the heat and the exhaust fumes, which were much
worse here than on the boulevard. Without circulating air I was leaking
big-time and the back of my hair w...
