Last Light

by Andy McNab

  "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 lit
tle 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."