Last Light Part 9

"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 Inst.i.tute, 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 But lately, now that the US had withdrawn, they'd been getting more adventurous.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 a.r.s.e." 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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s glinting confidently in the sun.

Paying another Balboa to exit the causeway, we hit a wide boulevard with a tree lined and manicured-gra.s.s 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 gla.s.s towers with their name stuck all over them. It was a dressy area: men walking the pavements were dressed smartly in trousers, pressed s.h.i.+rts 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, offsh.o.r.e banking, that kind of stuff."

As we pa.s.sed trendy bars, j.a.panese 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 sungla.s.ses 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 d.i.c.khead 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 a.s.ses."

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 fis.h.i.+ng boats was anch.o.r.ed round a sunken cargo s.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+ps stood in line, pointing towards land, their decks loaded with containers.

Aaron followed my gaze.

"They're waiting to enter the ca.n.a.l."

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 gla.s.s 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 s.h.i.+rts. One of the teachers was shouting at a taxi driver who complained at the delay, an old s.h.a.ggy 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 sungla.s.ses, 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 gra.s.s, 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 pa.s.sing the equally impressive American and British emba.s.sies. Inside each compound, the Stars and Stripes and Union Jack fluttered above the trees and high perimeter railings. The thickness of the window gla.s.s indicated it wasn't just for show.

As well as knowing what direction you needed to head out of a country when in the s.h.i.+t, it's also good to check on where your emba.s.sy is. I always liked to know there was somewhere to run to if the wheels fell off. Amba.s.sadors 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-s.h.i.+rts with "Munic.i.p.ad' 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 b.u.mpier 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 was soaking. The two of us were turning into the sweat-hog brothers.

I heard the roar of a bulldozer, and saw rusty metal grilles covering every conceivable entry point into the ramshackle buildings. Was.h.i.+ng hung from the windows and balconies, kids shouted at each other across the street.

The road became so narrow that vehicles were forced right up to the kerb, their wing mirrors occasionally sc.r.a.ping pedestrians. n.o.body seemed to care; the crowds were too busy gossiping and snacking on fried bananas or drinking beer.

It wasn't long before the traffic flow congealed and every driver immediately leant on his horn. I could smell strong, flowery perfume as women pushed past, and wafts of frying food from an open doorway. The whole place walls, doors, even adverts was a riot of red and yellow.

We nudged our way forward a bit, then stopped by two old women flicking their hips to blaring Caribbean music. Beyond them was a dimly lit shop, selling gas cookers, was.h.i.+ng machines, canned food, aluminium pots and pans, from which a Latin samba spilled on to the street. I liked it: mini Manhattan did nothing for me; this was more my kind of town.

We pa.s.sed through a street market and the traffic started to move a little more smoothly. This is El Chorrillo. Do you remember Just Cause you know, the invasion?"

I nodded.

"Well, this was ground zero when they we attacked the city. Noriega had his command centre here. It's an open s.p.a.ce now. Bombed flat."

"Oh, right." I looked out at a row of old women sitting behind flat card tables, with what looked like lottery tickets laid out neatly on display. A muscle-bound bodybuilder, a black guy in a very tight Golds Gym vest and jeans, was buying some tickets from one of the tables, looking an absolute nugget with a City gent-style umbrella in his hand to keep the sun off.

We eventually squeezed out of the market area, hit a T-junction and stopped. The road in front of us was a busy main drag. From the little I'd seen, the law here seemed to be that if you were bigger than the vehicle you were heading towards, you didn't have to stop: you just hit the horn and put your foot down. The Mazda wasn't exactly the biggest toy in the shop, but Aaron didn't seem to realize it was still big enough to get out there.

To my right was a wooden drink shack. Pepsi had won the cola wars hands down in Panama: every other h.o.a.rding was covered with their ads, alongside stubble chinned cowboys welcoming us to Marlboro Country. Next to the shack, in the shade of a tree and leaning against the tailgate of a highly polished Ford Explorer, with sparkling chrome wheels and a Madonna hanging off the rear-view mirror, were five Latino guys, young men in their twenties. Shoehorned into the rear of the Explorer was a ma.s.sive pair of loudspeakers, banging out Latin rap.

All the guys looked sharp, with their shaved heads and wraparound mirror shades.

They wouldn't have looked out of place in LA. There was enough gold hanging round their necks and wrists to keep the old woman begging at the other side of the road in three-course dinners for the rest of her life. Lying all around them on the ground were mounds of cigarette ends and Pepsi bottle tops.

One of the boys caught a glimpse of my Jackie O specials. Aaron was still rocking the wagon back and forth at the junction. The sun beat down on the static cab and turned up the oven temperature. A tailback of vehicles had developed behind us waiting to get out of the main. Horns were hit, and we were starting to attract some attention.

By now the news had spread about my fas.h.i.+on accessory. The Latino guys were getting to their feet to have a better look. One of them leant against the tailgate again and I could clearly see the shape of a pistol grip under his s.h.i.+rt. Aaron was still tensed over the wheel. He saw it too, and got even more fl.u.s.tered, c.o.c.king up getting out of the junction to the point where there were now more cars hooting on the main for us to get back in than behind us telling us to get the f.u.c.k out.

no The boys were laughing big-time at my eye wear and obviously making some very funny Spanish jokes as they high-fived and pointed. Aaron was staring straight ahead. Sweat poured down his head and beard, gathering under his chin and dripping. The steering-wheel was slippery with it. He didn't like one bit what was happening with these guys only about five metres away.

I was sweating too. The sun was toasting the right side of my face.

All of a sudden we were in a scene from Baywatch. Two uniformed men with hip holstered pistols had arrived on mountain bikes, clad in dark shorts and black trainers, with Tolicia' printed across the back of their beige polo s.h.i.+rts.

Dismounting, they parked their bikes against a tree and calmly started sorting out the chaos. With their bike helmets and sungla.s.ses still in place, they blew whistles hard and pointed at traffic. Miraculously, they managed to open up a s.p.a.ce on the main drag, then pointed and whistled at Aaron, waving him on.

As we drew away from the junction and turned left, the air was thick with angry shouts, mainly at the policemen.

"Sorry about that. Crazoids like those shoot at the drop of a hat. It creeps me out."

Very soon we were out of the slums and moved into upscale residential. One house we pa.s.sed was still under construction and the drills were going for it bigtime. Men were digging, pipes were being laid. All the power was coming from a generator that belonged to the US Army. I knew that because the camouflage pattern and the "US Army' stencilling told me so.

Aaron obviously felt a lot better now.

"See that?" He pointed at the generator.

"What would you say? Four thousand dollars?" I nodded, not really having a clue.

"Well," there was undisguised outrage in his voice, 'those guys probably laid out less than five hundred."

"Oh, interesting." Was it f.u.c.k. But I was obviously going to get more.