Last Light ns-4

by Andy McNab

  Baby-G told me it was 7.37, which meant we'd been on the road for over four hours. My eyes were stinging and my head still pounding, but there wouldn't be any time for relaxing just yet. I could do all that on Sunday maybe, or whenever it was that I finally got to the safety of Maryland. First, I needed to concentrate on how I was going to carry out the hit. I needed to grip myself and get on with the job. But try as I might to think about what I'd seen during the CTR, I just couldn't concentrate.

  Aaron had been spot on. Forty-five minutes later we emerged into a large clearing, most of it lying behind a building that was side on and directly in front of us, maybe two hundred metres away. It looked like the house that Jack built.

  The clouds had evaporated, to reveal sun and blue sky.

  "This is us." Aaron didn't sound too enthusiastic. He put his glasses back on, but there was no way I was wearing the Jackie Os again not if I was about to see their owner.

  To my left, and facing the front of the house, was a hill with a steep gradient covered with more fallen trees and rotten stumps, with tufty grass growing between them. The rest of the clearing was rough, but fairly flat.

  We followed the track towards the large building, which was more or less on one level. The main section was a one-storey, terra cotta-roofed villa, with dirty green plastered walls. There was a covered veranda out front, facing the high ground. Behind the main building, and attached to it, was a corrugated-iron extension maybe twice as big as the house itself and with a much higher roof.

  On my right were row upon row of white plastic five-gallon tubs, hundreds of them, about two feet high and the same in diameter. Their lids were sealed, but sprays of different coloured plants of all shapes and sizes shot from a circular hole cut out of the middle of each. It looked like Aaron and Carrie were running the area's first garden-centre mega store I'd stepped on to the set of The Good Life, Panama-style.

  Dotted around us were corrugated-iron outhouses, with piles of wooden barrels and boxes, and the occasional rotting wooden wheelbarrow. To my right, past the tubs, was a generator under a corrugated-iron roof with no side walls, and at least ten forty-five-gallon oil drums.

  As we got closer I could make out down pipes leading from the gutters into green plastic water butts that ran at intervals the length of the building. Above the roof, supported on scaffolding, was a large blue plastic water tank; beneath it was an old metallic one, with all sorts of pipes coming out of it. A pair of satellite dishes were mounted nearby, one pointing west, one east. Maybe they liked to watch both Colombian and Panamanian TV. Despite the technology, this was definitely Planet Tree-hug; all I needed to complete the picture was a couple of milking cows named Yin and Yang.

  Now that we were nearer the house, I could see the other pickup truck, parked the far side of the veranda. Aaron hit the Mazda's horn a few times, and looked worried as Carrie emerged from the veranda, putting on her wraparounds. She was dressed the same as when I'd met her, but had gelled her hair.

  "Please, Nick not a word."

  The wagon stopped and he jumped out as she stepped down from the veranda.

  "Hi."

  I got out, ready to greet, squinting to fight both the glare and my headache.

  I took a few steps towards them, then stopped to give them some space. But there weren't any greetings, kisses or touches, just a strained exchange.

  Not thinking much, just feeling hot and bothered, I moved towards them.

  I put on my nice-and-cheery-to-the-host voice.

  "Hello."

  It wasn't gel that was holding back her hair; she'd just had a shower.

  She noticed my hobble and ripped jeans.

  "What happened? You OK?"

  I didn't look at Aaron. Eyes give so much away.

  "I walked into some sort of animal trap or something. I'm-' "You'd better come and get cleaned up. I've some porridge fixed."

  That sounds wonderful." It sounded shit.

  She turned to walk back to the house, but Aaron had other ideas.

  "You know what?

  I'm going to clean the truck out there's been a fuel spillage in the back and, well, you know, I'd better clean it out."

  Carrie turned.

  "Oh, OK."

  I followed her towards the house as Aaron's sun glassed eyes gave me one last look and nod before going back to the wagon.

  We were just short of the veranda when she stopped and turned once more. As Aaron moved the Mazda over towards the tubs, I could see my bitten, lumpy face and scary sticking-up hair reflecting back at me in her slightly mirrored glasses. The lenses were too opaque for me to see anything of her eyes.

  "Luce, our daughter, thinks you're part of aUK study group, and you're here for a few days to see how we work. OK?"

  "Sure, that's not a problem." I was going to have to do my best to look like a tree-hugging academic. I wished I could see her eyes. I hated talking to mirrored glass.

  "She knows nothing about why you're really here. Nor do we, come to that. She's asleep, you'll see her soon." She tapped her left lens and pointed at my swollen eye.

  "Don't worry about that. It'll be fine in a few days."

  NINETEEN

  I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open as we stepped across cracked, faded terra cotta tiles, past two dark wood Victorian rocking-chairs and an old rope hammock scattered with coffee- and dribble-stained pillows. The front door was open, and Carrie pulled open a mesh mozzie door with a creak of hinges. To the left, and set above a meshed window, was a wall light, its bowl full of dried insects, fatally attracted to its glow. I caught the screen before it sprang back, and followed her inside.

  We were in near darkness after the blinding brilliance outside, and there was a strong smell of wood. It was like being in a garden shed. I stifled a yawn; my eyes were trying to close, but I had to fight them. This was virgin territory and I had to take note of every detail.

  The room was large, with a high ceiling. Hefty tree trunks supporting the building were set into plastered walls, which had once been painted cream but were now scuffed and discoloured. It was furnished like a holiday let, basic stuff, a bit rough, and not a lot of it.

  Carrie was heading straight to another door, painted a faded yellow, about ten metres dead ahead. I followed as she took off her glasses and let them fall around her neck. To our left were four armchairs built out of logs, covered with dirty cushions with flowery patterns that didn't match. The chairs were evenly arranged around a circular coffee table, which was made from a slice of dark wood more than a metre in diameter. Trained over the coffee table and chairs were two 1950s-style, free-standing electric fans with protective wire covers.

  The chrome had seen better days, and it was a shame there was no ribbon hanging from the mesh to given them that authentic look.

  The wall to the left had two more doors, also painted yellow and set into flaking brown frames. The furthest one was partly open and led into what I presumed was their bedroom. A large natural wood headboard held one end of a once-white mosquito net; the other was suspended from the ceiling. The bed was unmade and I saw purple sheets. Men's and women's clothes were thrown over a chair. The wooden butt of a rifle hung on the wall to the right of the bed. I thought I'd keep it a little closer, living out here.

  Further along, in the corner, was the kitchen area, with a small table and chairs. An array of different-patterned mugs hung from hooks in the wall.

  On my right, the whole wall, as far as the door we were heading for, was covered by bookshelves. The only break was another window, also covered with protective mesh, which seemed to be the only other source of natural light.

  I began to smell porridge. Steam rose from a large pot sitting on one of the kitchen units to the side of the cooker. Next to it lay a big bunch of bananas and a bowl of oranges.

  Carrie disappeared through the door, and I followed her into the larger, corrugated-iron extension. The walls were lined with plyboard, and there was a rough concrete floor. Hangin
g down from the high ceiling on the end of steel rods were two old and very dirty days-of-the-Raj overhead fans, both stationary.

  The room was a lot hotter than the one we'd just left, but lighter, with large sheets of clear corrugated plastic high up in the walls serving as windows.

  The extension might be cheap and low-tech, but what it housed wasn't. Running the length of the wall in front of me and continuing after a right angle down the left-hand side was one continuous desk unit, formed out of trestle tables.

  On it, and facing me, were two PCs with webcams attached to the top of the monitors; in front of each was a canvas director's chair, the green backrests well sagged with use. The screen of the PC on the right was displaying an image of the Miraflores lock. It must have been a webcam online, because the screen was just at the point of refreshing itself to show a cargo ship half-way out of one of the locks. Going by the bright reflection in the puddles on the grass, we weren't the only part of Panama with sun.

  The PC to the left was closed down, and had a set of headphones with the mike attached hanging over the camera. Both machines were surrounded by paper and general office clutter, as was the underneath, with wires running everywhere and packs of office supplies. The desk against the wall to the left, facing me, housed a third PC, also with a webcam with headphones hanging, and was surrounded by schoolbooks. This had to be Luce's Land.

  Carrie turned immediately to the right through the only other door and I followed. We entered what looked like a quartermaster's store, a lot smaller than the other two areas and a lot hotter. It smelt like the local deli. Rows of grey angle-iron shelving lined the walls left and right of me, turning the middle into a corridor. Stacked each side of us were all sorts, cartons of tinned food, hurricane lamps, torches, packs of batteries. On pallets on the floor were bags of rice, porridge oats and milk powder the size of coal sacks.

  Enough supplies, in fact, to keep the Good Life going for a year. Laid out in the corridor was a US Army cot bed and a blanket, a dark green US Army lightweight still in its thin, clear plastic wrapping. That's for you."

  She nodded towards a corrugated-iron door facing us as she quickly closed the one to the computer room behind us, plunging this area into near darkness.

  "That'll take you outside. You'll be able to see better out there. I'll bring out the first-aid kit."

  I walked past her, dropped my jacket on the cot, then turned back to see her climbing up the shelves.

  "Could I see the imagery, please?"

  She didn't look down at me.

  "Sure."

  I went outside. The sun was casting a shadow on this side of the building, which was good as my head was thumping big-time and being in the full glare wouldn't help at all. The crickets were still out doing their stuff; they're not great for headaches, either.

  In front of me, two hundred metres away, lay the massed ranks of white tubs with their greenery sticking out of the top and the sunlight bouncing off puddles around them as the generator chugged rhythmically. Aaron was in the distance, where the tubs met the track, a hose in his hands, flushing out the back of the wagon. A flock of large black and white birds lifted from the tree-line beyond the tubs and whooshed overhead just above the rooftop.

  I slumped down on the concrete foundation that protruded along the wall, my back against one of the green water butts, and closed my eyes for a second, trying to relieve the pain. It wasn't happening so I opened the hole in my jeans to inspect the wound. The sweatshirt was still wet and muddy in the creases and knots, even after the clean-up in the drainage ditch. It had done the job of stopping the blood flow pretty well, though I couldn't be sure about infection.

  I'd had tetanus boosters, but probably only Aaron knew what kind of weird and wonderful microbes lurked in the Panama jungle.

  I checked out the clotting between the material and flesh: the two had been trying their hardest to dry together and become one, and the swollen bruising around the wound felt kind of numb. I knew from experience that this sort of injury would be a major drama if you were stuck out in the jungle for any length of time, becoming a pus-filled mound within days, but at least here I could sort it out.

  Carrie appeared from the storeroom with an old-fashioned, brown-cheque red suitcase and a sheet of A4 paper. She placed both on the concrete and lifted the suitcase lid to reveal what looked like quite a good basic medical pack. She came close in to look at the sweatshirt around my leg, and for the first time I caught a glimpse of her eyes. They were big, and very green. Her wet hair had fallen from behind her ears, and I was close enough to smell apple shampoo.

  She didn't look up at me, just carried on digging around in the case. Her voice was clear, concise.

  "So, what is it you're here for?"

  She started to pull stuff out; I wasn't too sure if she was going to dress the wound herself or just show me what was available.

  She didn't look up at me as she continued.

  "I was told nothing except that you'd be coming and we were to help."

  By now there were rolls of bandages in crunchy Cellophane, packs of pills and half-used bottles of medicine on the concrete as she continued to rummage.

  There's something we need Charlie to do. I'm here to give him a reminder."

  She didn't look up or otherwise acknowledge my answer. I looked at her hands as she bent over the suitcase and laid out different-coloured tubes of cream. They were working hands, not those of a lady who lunched. There were a few little scars here and there, but her fingernails weren't ingrained with dirt like Aaron's. They were short and functional, no hint of polish, but all the same they looked cared for.

  "Don't you know what you're here to remind him about? I mean, don't they tell you these things when you're sent out, or whatever the word is?"

  I shrugged.

  "I thought maybe you might know."

  "No, I know nothing." She sounded almost sad about it.

  There was another pause. I certainly didn't know what else to say, so pointed to the bits and pieces spread about on the concrete.

  "I need to clean myself up before I dress the wound. I'm afraid I don't have any other clothes."

  She stood up slowly, looking over at the wagon.

  "You can use some of Aaron's.

  The shower is out in back." She pointed behind her. I'll get a towel."

  Before reaching the door she half turned to me, "We have a two-minute rule here.

  First minute for soaking, then turn off the hose and soap yourself down. The second minute is to rinse. We get a lot of rain but seem to have trouble capturing it." She gripped on the handle.

  "Oh, and in case you're tempted, don't drink from the shower. Only drink from the hoses marked with a D that's the only treated water." There was a smile as she disappeared.

  "Otherwise it'll be giving you a pretty big reminder of why it needs to be treated."

  I took a look at the printout of the satellite imagery. Its grainy reproduction covered the whole page and was zoomed right into the target, giving me a plan view of the house, the more or less rectangular treeline and the broccoli patch surrounding it. I tried to get to work, but I couldn't do it even knowing how important this was to me, I just couldn't get my head to work.

  Instead, my eye caught one of the dark brown bottles of pills. The label said dihydrocodeine, an excellent painkiller, especially when taken with aspirin, which boosts its effect big-time. I shook one out and dry swallowed as I sorted in the case for an aspirin. Eventually, pushing one out of its foil, I got that down my neck as well.

  I placed one of the crepe bandages on top of the paper to hold it down, got up and started limping round the back in the direction of the shower. Maybe it was the light, or just that I was knackered, but I was feeling very woozy.

  Hobbling past the storeroom entrance, I looked in and saw that the computer-room door was still closed. I stopped and looked at the cot. It was old-style, canvas rather than nylon, on a collapsible alloy frame. I had good memories of t
hese things: they were easy to put up, comfortable, and kept you about two feet off the ground not like the Brit ones, where you needed a physics degree to assemble them, and ended up only about six inches off the ground. If you got a saggy one, you could spend your night lying on cold concrete or with your arse in the mud.

  Some bird or other warbled and chirped in the distance, and the humid air was heavy with pungent aromas. I sat down on the cot, dragged Diego's wallet from my jeans and looked at the picture once more. Another nightmare for later, I supposed. It'd just have to join the queue.

  Aaron had finished and was driving back to the house. I got up and closed out the daylight, then stumbled back to the cot, still in my damp clothes, and lay down on my back, my heart pumping faster as my head filled with Kelly, bodies, Diego, more bodies, the Yes Man, even Josh. And fuck it, why had I told Carrie I was here to give Charlie a reminder? Why had I told her anything about the job at all?

  Shit, shit, shit... The pins and needles returned. I had no control as they moved up my legs and my skin tingled. I turned over and curled up, my arms holding my shins, not wanting to think any more, not wanting to see any more.

  TWENTY

  Thursday 7 September I walk into the bedroom, Buffy and Britney posters, bunk beds and the smell of sleep. The top bunk is empty as I move towards them in the dark, kicking into shoes and teen-girl magazines. She is asleep, half in, half out of her duvet, stretched out on her back, stretched out like a starfish, her hair spread in a mess over the pillow. I put her dangling leg and arm gently back under the duvet.

  Something is wrong ... my hands are wet ... she is limp ... she isn't sucking her bottom lip, she isn't dreaming of being a pop star. The lights go on and I see the blood dripping from my hands on to her mutilated face. Her mouth is wide open, her eyes staring at the ceiling.

  Sundance is lying on the top bunk, the bloodstained baseball bat in his hands, his eyes black and nose broken, looking down at me, smiling. 'I wouldn't mind a trip to Maryland ... we could go to Washington and do the sights first... I wouldn't mind a trip to Maryland ... we could go to Washington and do the sights first..."