Last Light

by Andy McNab

  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 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. Washing 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 scraping pedestrians. Nobody 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, washing 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 passed 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 space 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 hoarding 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 massive 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 g
round 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 fashion 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 shirt. Aaron was still tensed over the wheel. He saw it too, and got even more flustered, cocking 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 fuck 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 shirts.

  Dismounting, they parked their bikes against a tree and calmly started sorting out the chaos. With their bike helmets and sunglasses still in place, they blew whistles hard and pointed at traffic. Miraculously, they managed to open up a space 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 passed 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 fuck. But I was obviously going to get more.

  "When SOUTH COM couldn't clear out all the five remaining bases by the December deadline, they decided to abandon or simply give away any items valued at less than a thousand dollars. So what happened, to make life easier, nearly everything ill was valued at nine hundred and ninety-nine bucks. Technically it was supposed to have been given away to good causes, but everything was just marked up and sold on, vehicles, furniture, you name it."

  As I looked around I realized it wasn't just that that had been offloaded. I spotted another gang of street cleaners in yellow T-shirts. They were digging up anything green that stuck out of the pavement and everybody seemed to be wearing brand new US Army desert-camouflage fatigues.

  He started to sound like the village gossip.

  "I heard a story that a two hundred-and-thirty-thousand-dollar Xerox machine got the nine ninety-nine tag because the paperwork to ship it back up north was just too much hassle."

  I was looking around at a quiet residential area, nice bungalows with rubber plants outside, estate cars and lots of big fences and grilles. He pointed out nothing in particular as he continued.

  "Out there somewhere, there are guys repairing their vehicles with fifteen-thousand-dollar jet aircraft torque sets that cost them sixty bucks." He sighed. 'I wish I could have laid my hands on some of that stuff. We just got odds and ends."

  The houses were being replaced by parades of shops and neon signs for Blockbuster and Burger King. Rising into the sky about a couple of Ks ahead, and looking like three towering metal Hs, were the stacks of container cranes.

  "Balboa docks," he said. They're at the entrance to the canal. We'll be in the Zone," he corrected himself, 'the old Canal Zone, real soon."

  That was pretty evident just by looking at the road signs. There didn't seem to be many in this country, but I saw the odd US military one now, hanging precariously from its post, telling us that USAF Albrook wasn't far away. A large blue and white faded metal sign on the main drag gave us directions for the Servicemen's Christian Association, and soon afterwards we hit a good quality grey concrete road that bent right round an airfield full of light aircraft and private and commercial helicopters. As we followed the airfield's perimeter road, Balboa docks were behind us and to our left.

  "That used to be Air Force Albrook. It's where PARC stole those choppers I told you about."

  We passed a series of boarded-up barrack blocks, four floors high, with air-conditioners poking out of virtually every window. Their immaculately clean cream walls and red-tiled roofs made them look very American, very military.

  Skyscraping fifty-metre steel flagpoles that no doubt used to fly enormous Stars and Stripes were now flying the Panamanian flag.

  Aaron sighed.

  "You know the saddest thing about it?"

  I was looking at part of the air base that seemed to have become the bus terminal. A big sign saying "United States Air Force Albrook' was half pasted over with details of the bus routes, and lines of buses were being cleaned and swept out.

  "What's that?"

  "Because of this nine ninety-nine giveaway, the Air Force was in such dire need of forklifts they actually had to start renting some of their old ones back to get the final equipment loaded to the States."

  As soon as we cleared the air base the road was flanked again on either side by pampas grass at least three metres high. We hit another row of toll booths, paid our few cents and moved through.

  "Welcome to the Zone. This road parallels the canal, which is about a quarter of a mile that way." He pointed over to our left and it was as if we'd just driven into a South Florida subdivision, with American-style bungalows and houses, rows of telephone booths, traffic lights and road signs in English. Even the street lighting was different. A golf course further up the road was advertised in English and Spanish. Aaron pointed.

  "Used to be the officers' club."

  A deserted high school on the right looked like something straight out of an American TV show. Beside it squatted a massive white dome for all-weather sports.

  We were most definitely where the other half lived.

  "How long till we get to the house?"

  Aaron was looking from side to side of the virtually deserted road, taking in the detail of the Zone close down

  "Maybe another forty, fifty minutes. It was kinda busy downtown."

  It was time to talk shop now.

  "Do you have any idea why I'm here, Aaron?"

  Not much, I hoped.

  He shrugged evasively and used his gentle voice that was hard to hear above the wind.

  "We only got told last night you were coming. We're to help you in any way we can and show you where Charlie lives."

  "Charlie?"

  "Charlie Chan you know, the guy from that old black and white movie. That's not his real name, of course, just what people call him here. Not to his face, God forbid. His real name is Oscar Choi."

  "I like Charlie Chan a lot better," I said.

  "Suits him."

  Aaron nodded.

  "For sure, he doesn't look an Oscar to me neither."

  What do you know about him?"

  "He's really well known here. He's a very generous guy, plays the all-round good citizen thing patron of the arts, that kind of stuff. In fact, he funds the degre
e course I get to lecture on."

  This wasn't sounding much like a teenager.

  "How old is he?"

  "Maybe a bit younger than me. Say early fifties."

  I started to get a little worried.

  "Does he have a family?"

  "Oh, yeah, he's a big family man. Four sons and a daughter, I think."

  "How old are the kids?"

  "I don't know about the older ones, but I know the youngest son has just started university. Chose a good course environmental stuff is cool right now. I think the others work for him downtown."

  My head was thumping big-time. I was finding it hard to concentrate. I got my fingers under the glasses and tried to get my eyes working.

  Aaron obviously had views on the Chinaman.

  "It's strange that men like him spend all their lives slashing, burning, pillaging to get what they want. Then, once they've amassed all their wealth, they try to preserve everything they used to try to destroy, but underneath never change. Very Viking, don't you think, Nick?"

  What is he, a politician?"

  "Nope, doesn't need to be, he owns most of them. His family has been here since the labourers started digging the canal in 1904, selling opium to keep the workers happy. He has his fingers in every pie, in every province and in everything from construction to "import and export"." Aaron gave the quote sign with his right forefinger.

  "You know, keeping up the family tradition -cocaine, heroin, even supplying arms to PARC or anyone else down south who has the money.

  He's one of the very few who are happy about the US stand-down. Business is so much easier to conduct now we've gone."

  He lifted his left hand from the steering-wheel and rubbed his forefinger and thumb together. This has many friends, and he has plenty of it."

  Drugs, guns, and legal business, it made sense: they usually go hand in hand.

  "He's what my mother would have called "someone's wicked son" he's smart, real smart. It's a well-known story round here that he crucified sixteen men in Colombia. They were local-government people, policemen, that kind of thing, trying to cut him out of a deal he'd made with them for moving coke. He had them nailed up in the town square for everyone to see and let them die someone's wicked son for sure."