Last Light

by Andy McNab

  A chain-link fence line started to appear on the right.

  This is," he corrected himself once more, 'was Fort Clayton."

  The place was deserted. Through the fence was a line of impressive military buildings. The white flagpoles were empty, but still standing guard in front of them were perfect rows of tall, slim palm trees, the first four feet or so in need of another coat of whitewash.

  As we drove further on, I could see the same accommodation blocks that were at Albrook, all positioned in a neat line with concrete paths crisscrossing the uncut grass. Road signs were still visible telling troops not to drink and drive, and to remember they were ambassadors for their country.

  We lapsed into silence for a few minutes, surveying the emptiness.

  "Nick, do you mind if we stop for a Coke? I'm feeling pretty dry."

  "How long is it going to take? How far until we get to Charlie's place?"

  Maybe another six, seven miles after the Coke stop. It's only a few minutes off the route."

  Sounded good to me: I was going to be having a long day.

  We passed the main gate of the camp and Aaron sighed. The bold brass letters that were secured to the entrance wall now just read "Layton'. "I think they're going to turn it into a technology park, something like that."

  "Oh, right." Who cared? Now he'd talked about it, all I wanted was a drink, and maybe an opportunity to find out more from him about the target house.

  TWELVE

  We stayed on the main drag for maybe another half-mile before turning left on to a much narrower road. Ahead of us in the distance, on the high ground, I could just make out the superstructure and high load of a container ship, looking bizarre as it cut the green skyline.

  That's where we're heading, the Miraflores locks," Aaron said.

  "It's the only place round here to get a drink now everyone moving along this road comes here, it's like a desert watering-hole."

  As we started to reach the higher ground of the lock a scene unfolded that made me wonder if Clinton was about to visit. The place was packed with vehicles and people. A line of brightly coloured buses had brought an American-style marching band and eighteen-year-old baton twisters. Red tunics, white trousers and stupid hats with feathers sticking out were blowing into white enamelled trombones and all sorts as the baton girls, squeezed into red leotards and white knee-high boots, whirled their chrome sticks and streamers. It was a zoo up here: teams putting up bunting, unloading fold-up wooden chairs from trucks, lumbering around with scaffolding poles over their shoulders.

  "Uh-oh," Aaron sighed, "I thought it was going to be on Saturday."

  "What?"

  The Ocaso."

  We drove into the large wired compound, jam-packed with private vehicles and tour company MPVs, around which were dotted some smart and well-maintained colonial-style buildings. The sounds of brass instruments tuning up and fast, excited Spanish poured into the cab.

  "Not with you, mate. What's the Ocaso?"

  It's a cruise liner, one of the biggest. It means sunset in English. Two thousand passengers plus. It's been coming through here for years, runs out of San Diego to the Caribbean."

  While trying to find a parking space, he checked out some posters stuck up along a chain-link fence.

  "Yeah, it's this Saturday, the four hundredth and final transit. It's going to be a big deal. TV stations, politicians, some of the cast of The Bold and the Beautiful will be on board that show's a big deal here.

  This must be the dress rehearsal."

  Just a few metres past the buses and chain-link, I caught my first glimpse of the enormous concrete locks, flanked by immaculately cut grass. None of it looked as breathtaking as I'd been expecting, more a hugely scaled-up version about three hundred metres long and thirty wide of any normal-sized set of canal locks.

  Manoeuvring into the first lock was the rust-streaked blue and white ship, five storeys high and maybe two hundred metres long, powered by its own engines but being guided by six stubby-looking but obviously powerful aluminium electric locomotives on rails, three each side. Six cables slung between the hull and the lo cos four at the rear, the other two up front, helped guide it between the concrete walls without touching.

  Aaron sounded off with the tour-guide bit as he squeezed between two cars.

  "You're looking at maybe six thousand automobiles in there, heading for the west coast of the States. Four per cent of the world's trade and fourteen of the US's passes through here. It's an awesome amount of traffic." He gave a sweep of his hand to emphasize the scale of the waterway in front of us.

  "From the Bay of Panama here on the Pacific side up to the Caribbean, it only takes maybe eight to ten hours. Without the canal you could spend two weeks sailing round Cape Horn."

  I was nodding with what I hoped was the required amount of awe when I saw where we'd be getting our Coke. A truck-trailer had grown roots in the middle of the car park and become a cafe-cum-tourist-shop. White plastic garden chairs were scattered around matching tables shaded by multicoloured sun umbrellas. Hanging up for sale were enough souvenir T-shirts to clothe an army. We found a space and got out. It was sweltering, but at least I could peel my sweatshirt off my back.

  Aaron headed towards the side window to join the line of tourists and two red tunics, each with a lump of brass under their arm, as they leered at a group of athletic-looking baton girls paying for their drinks. 'I'll get us a couple of cold ones."

  I stood under one of the parasols and watched the ship inch into the lock. I took off my Jackie Os and cleaned them: the glare made me regret it immediately.

  The sun was merciless, but the lock workers seemed impervious to it, neatly dressed in overalls and hard hats as they went about their jobs. There was an air of brisk efficiency about the proceedings as a loudspeaker system sounded off quick, businesslike radio traffic in Spanish, just managing to make itself heard above the nightmare around the buses and the clatter of scaffolding poles.

  A four-tier grandstand was being erected on the grass facing the lock, supplementing the permanent one to the left of it, by the visitors' centre, which was also covered in bunting. Saturday was going to be very busy indeed.

  The ship was nearly into the lock, with just a couple of feet to spare each side. Tourists watched from the permanent viewing platform, clicking away with their Nikons, as the band drifted on to the grass. Some of the girls practised their splits, professional smiles, and top and bottom wiggles as they got into ranks.

  The only person at ground level who seemed not to be looking at the girls was a white man in a fluorescent pink, flowery Hawaiian shirt. He was leaning against a large, dark blue GMC Suburban, watching the ship as he smoked with deep, long drags. The guy was using his free hand to wave the bottom of his shirt to circulate some air. His stomach had been badly burned, leaving a large scar the size of a pizza that looked like melted plastic. Shit, that must have been painful. I was glad my stomach pain was just from a session with Sundance's Caterpillars.

  Apart from the windscreen, all the windows had been blackened out with film. I could see it was a DIY job by a snag mark in one of the rear door windows. It made a clear triangle where the plastic had been ripped down three or four inches.

  Then, as if he'd just realized he'd forgotten to lock his front door, he jumped into the wagon and drove out. Maybe the real reason was because he had a false plate on the CMC and he didn't want any of the police to scrutinize it. The wagon had been cleaned, but not well enough to match the even cleaner plate. I'd always hit the carwash immediately before changing plates, then took a drive in the country to mess both the plate and the body-work before using the vehicle for work. I bet there were a lot of people with false plates down here, keeping the banking sector vibrant.

  A fragile-looking Jacob's ladder of wooden slats and knotted rope was dropped over the side of the ship and two men in pristine white shirts and trousers climbed aboard from the grass below, just as Aaron came back with four cans of Minute M
aid.

  "No Coke they've been overrun today."

  We sat in the shade and watched the hydraulic rams slowly push the gates shut, and the water twenty-seven million gallons of it, according to Aaron flooded into the lock. The ship rose into the sky before us as the scaffolders downed tools and took a seat in preparation for the girls' rehearsal.

  Quiet contemplation obviously wasn't Aaron's thing and he was soon waffling on.

  "You see, the canal isn't as most people think, just a big ditch cut through the country, like the Suez. No, no, no. It's a very complicated piece of engineering quite amazing to think it's more or less Victorian."

  I had no doubt it was completely fascinating, but I had other, more depressing, things on my mind.

  The Miraflores, and the other two sets further up, lift or drop these ships eighty feet. Once up there, they just sail on over the lake and then get lowered again to sea level the other side. It's kind of like a bridge over the isthmus.

  Pure genius the eighth wonder of the world."

  I pulled the ring on my second orange and nodded towards the lock.

  "Bit of a tight fit, isn't it?" That'd keep him waffling for a while.

  He responded as if he'd designed the thing himself.

  "No problem they're all built to Panamax specifications. Shipyards have been keeping the size of the locks in mind for decades now."

  The vessel continued to rise like a skyscraper in front of me. Just then, the trumpets, drums and whistles started up as the band broke into a quick-tempo samba and the girls did their stuff to the delight of the scaffolders.

  Ten minutes later, when the water levels were equal, the front gate was opened and the process began all over again. It was like a giant staircase. The batons were still getting thrown into the air and the band were marching up and down the grass. Everyone seemed to be getting very Latin as some of the brass section chanced a few dance moves of their own as they strutted their stuff.

  A black Lexus 4x4 with gold-mirrored side windows pulled up opposite the shop.

  The windows slid down to reveal two shirt-and-tied white-eyes. The front-seat passenger, a muscular, well-tanned twenty something got out and went straight to the trailer window, ignoring the queue. One of the new small, chrome-effect Nokias glinted from his belt along with a weapon holstered on his right hip.

  Just as with the CMC, however, I thought nothing of it after all, this was Central America. I just tilted my head back to get the last of the drink down my neck, thinking of getting another couple for the journey.

  A young American voice called out from the Lexus as the twenty something went back with the drinks.

  "Hey, Mr. Y! What's happening, man?"

  Aaron's head jerked round, his face breaking into a smile. He waved.

  "Hey, Michael, and how are you? How was your break?"

  I turned as well. My head was still back but I instantly recognized the grinning face leaning out of the rear passenger window.

  Finishing the drink, I brought my head down as Aaron moved over to the car. My tiredness disappeared as adrenaline pumped. This was not good, not good at all.

  I looked at the floor, pretending to relax, and tried to listen above the music.

  The boy held out a hand for Aaron to shake, but his eyes were on the girls.

  "I'm sorry, I can't get out of the car my father says I have to stay in with Robert and Ross. I heard they'd be here today, thought I'd get a look on the way home, know what I mean, Mr. Y? Didn't you check out the pompom girls? I mean, before you got married ..."

  I could see that the two BG (bodyguards) weren't remotely distracted by the girls or the infectious Latin tempo, they were doing their job. Their faces were impassive behind tinted sunglasses as they drank from their cans. The engine was running and I could see the moisture drip from the air-conditioning reservoir on to the tarmac.

  The band stopped playing and now marched to the command of a bass drum. Michael jabbered on with excitement, and something he said made Aaron arch an eyebrow.

  "England?"

  "Yes, I returned yesterday. There was a bomb and some terrorists were killed. My father and I were very close by, in the Houses of Parliament."

  Aaron showed his surprise as Michael pulled back the ring on his can.

  "Hey, Nick, did you hear that?" He pointed me out to the target with a cock of his head.

  "Nick he's British."

  Shit, shit, Aaron no!

  Michael's eyes turned to me and he smiled, displaying perfect white teeth. The BG also moved their heads casually to give me the once-over. This wasn't good.

  I smiled and studied the target. He had short black shining hair, side parted, and his eyes and nose looked slightly European. His smooth unblemished skin was darker than most Chinese. Maybe his mother was Panamanian, and he spent a lot of time in the sun.

  Aaron had realized he had fucked up and stammered, "He kind of hitched a lift from me in the city to take a look at the locks -you know, and check out the chicks ..."

  Michael nodded, not really that fussed. I turned back to the ship as it left the dock, wanting very much to walk right over and ram my can in Aaron's mouth.

  After a minute or so of university stuff Michael got a nod from the BG and started to wind down the conversation. As he held out his hand again for a farewell he glanced over one more time at the leotards and pompoms. A whistle sounded out commands and the drums sparked up once more.

  "I have to go now. Will I see you next week, Mr. Y?"

  "Sure thing." Aaron gave him a high five.

  "You get that project done?"

  "I think you'll like it. Anyway, catch you later." Out of politeness he nodded to me over Aaron's shoulder, then the window powered up and the Lexus moved off, leaving behind a poodle-size piss puddle from the air-conditioning.

  Aaron waved until they were out of sight, then spun towards me, his face abject as the brass section and girls joined in the fast drum rhythm.

  "Nick, I'm really sorry." He shook his head.

  "I just didn't think. I'm not really cut out for this kind of thing. That's Charlie's son did I tell you he's on the course I teach?

  I'm sorry, I just didn't think."

  "It's OK, mate. No damage done." I was lying. The last thing I needed was to be introduced to the target and, even worse, have the BG knowing what I looked like. There was also the connection with Aaron. My heart was pounding. All in all, not a good day out.

  Those guys with him Robert and Ross? They're the ones who hung up those Colombians. They're Charlie's special guys, I've heard stories about-' Aaron's expression suddenly changed.

  "Did you have something to do with that bomb in London? I mean, is this all about-' I shook my head as I swallowed the last of the juice. I could feel the blood rushing around my head.

  I'm sorry, it's not any of my business. I don't really want to know."

  I wasn't too sure if he'd believed me, but it didn't matter.

  "How far have we got left to Michael's house?"

  "Like I said, five, maybe six miles. If the picture back at our place is anything to go by, it's some kind of palace."

  I started to get my cash out as I walked towards the trailer window.

  "I think I'd better have a look at it, then, don't you? What about another drink while we wait for Michael to get home and settle down?"

  The expression on his face still said guilty.

  "Tell you what," I said, 'you buy and then we're even."

  At least that got a fleeting smile out of him as he delved into his grubby pockets for coins.

  "And see if they have anything for a headache, could you?"

  Over the other side of the car park was an ATM with the HSBC logo. I knew I wouldn't be able to withdraw any more money today, but within hours of me attempting to, the Yes Man would at least know I was in-country.

  We spent the next forty minutes killing time at the plastic table with just the sound of the lo cos humming along their tracks as the enterta
inment took a break for lunch. I had the Jackie Os back on, trying to rest my eyes and head. It seemed no one ever got a headache round here.

  Aaron took the opportunity to explain about the US stand-down the previous December. The fact that he could reel off all the dates and numbers so precisely emphasized his bitterness about what had happened.

  In total, more than four hundred thousand acres of Canal Zone and bases, worth more than $10 billion, had been handed over -along with the canal itself, which had been built and paid for by the US to the tune of a further $30 billion. And the only way they could come back was under the terms of the DeConcini Reservation, which allowed for military intervention if the canal was endangered.

  It was all interesting stuff, but what was more important to me was confirming that Michael would be at university this week.

  "For sure." Aaron nodded.

  "They'll all be headed back. The semester started for most folks last week."

  We headed for the house, driving into Clayton. Aaron explained that now the US had gone Charlie had got his hands on some of the Zone and built on it.

  The only security these days at the guard house was an old guy sleeping on the veranda of the guard room with half a jam-jar of something resembling black tea by his side, looking quite annoyed to be woken up to lift the barrier.

  Clayton might become a technology park one day, but not yet. We passed deserted barrack blocks with tall grass growing between them. The US Army's legacy was still very much in evidence. I could see stencilling on steel plates above every barrack door: Building 127, HQ Theater Support Brigade, Fort Clayton, Panama, US Army South. I wondered if our SOUTH COM bosses during my time in Colombia had sent us our satellite photography and orders from these very buildings.

  The neighbourhood looked as if it had been evacuated before a hurricane. The children's swings between the deserted bungalows and palm-fringed, two-floor apartment blocks were showing the first signs of rust through their blue paintwork, and the baseball ground, which needed a good mow, still had the results of the last game displayed on the scoreboard. US road signs told us to travel at 15 mph. because of children playing.