peared. I  looked up,  trying to read  their
expressions.
     They didn't look good.
     The first kick was aimed at my chest. My body re flexed into a ball but
Sundance's  boot connected  hard with my thigh. By now my chin was down,  my
teeth  were clenched, and I'd closed my eyes.  There was nothing  I could do
but accept the inevitable, curled up like a hedgehog, my hands still cuffed,
trying  to protect my face.  I  started  to take it and  just hoped that  it
wouldn't carry on for long.
     They grabbed my feet and dragged me towards the centre of the room. One
of the mugs rattled  over on the  tiles. I kept  my legs as bent as I could,
fighting against them being stretched out to expose my stomach and bollocks.
I opened one eye just  in time  to watch  a Caterpillar boot connect with my
ribs. I brought my || head down further, in an attempt to cover my chest. It
must  have worked, because another boot swung right into my arse  this time,
and it felt as if the inside  of my sphincter had exploded. The pain was off
the scale and to counteract it I tried to clench  my cheek  muscles together
but to do that I had to straighten my legs a little.
     The inevitable boot flew into the pit of my stomach. Bile exploded from
me. The acid taste in my mouth and nose was almost worse than the kicking.
     It was past midnight and  I was curled up back in my corner.  At  least
they'd taken the cuffs off now. The lights were off and the
     TV flickered away  with a Channel 5 soft-porn film. They'd had pie  and
chips earlier and made me crawl over to wipe up my bile from  the floor with
the used paper as they drank more tea.
     There  was no more filling in, not  even an acknowledgement of me being
there.  I had just  been left to  stew  as  Sundance lay half asleep  on the
settee. Trainers  was wide awake and on  stag, smoking  his  roll-up, draped
across the two armchairs, making sure I didn't have any stupid ideas.
     I slowly stretched out flat on  my stomach to  lessen the pain from the
kicking,  and rested my face on my hands, closing my eyes to try to get some
sleep. It was never going to work: I could feel the blood pumping in my neck
and couldn't  stop thinking  about what  might happen  to me next. My Beachy
Head trip  could still  be on the cards with these two; it  all  depended on
what the Yes Man had to say yes to, I supposed.
     In  the past, I'd  always managed to  get out of even  the deepest shit
with  just the thinnest  layer still stuck  to me.  I thought  of my gunshot
wound, sewn-back on earlobe, and dog-bite scars, and knew how lucky I'd been
on  those  jobs in  the last  few years. I thought  of  other jobs, of being
blindfolded and lined up against the  wall of an  aircraft hangar, listening
to the noise of weapons being cocked. I remembered hearing the men each side
of me, either quietly  praying  or openly crying and begging. I  hadn't seen
any reason  to do  either.  It  wasn't that I wanted  to  die; just that I'd
always known that death was part of the deal.
     But this did feel different. I thought of Kelly. I hadn't spoken to her
since  this job  started. Not  because  there  had been no opportunity1  had
agreed timings  with Josh last  month it  was just that I was  too busy with
preparations, or sometimes I just forgot.
     Josh was right to fuck me off when I  did get through: she  did need  a
routine and stability. I could see his half-Mexican, half-black shaved head,
scowling at me on the phone like a divorced  wife.  The skin on his  jaw and
cheekbone was a patchwork of  pink, like a  torn  sponge that had been badly
sewn back together.
     The scarring was  down to me, which didn't help the situation  much. He
wouldn't be getting too  many  modelling offers from Old Spice, that was for
sure.  I tried to  break  the ice  with him once by telling him.  He  didn't
exactly fall about with laughter.
     I turned  my  head and rested my cheek on  my  hands, watching Trainers
suck on the last of his roll-up. I supposed  I'd always known the  day would
come, sooner or  later, but  I  didn't  want this to  be  it.  Stuff flashed
through my mind as if I was  a split second  away from a  massive car crash,
all the sorts of  things that  must hit any  parent  when they know  they're
about to die. The stupid argument with the kids before leaving for work. Not
building that  tree-house.  Not getting  round  to filling  out a  will. The
holidays not taken, the promises broken.
     Josh was the only person apart from Kelly I cared for and who was still
alive.
     Would  he  miss  me?  He'd just be pissed  off that  we  had unfinished
business. And what  about  Kelly herself? She had a new start  now would she
just forget all about her useless, incompetent guardian in a few years?
     SEVEN
     Monday  4 September Sundance's StarT  ac short, sharp tones cut the air
after a long, painful night.
     It  was just after  eight.  I  didn't bother  to  move  from  the prone
position because of my  kicking, but tried instead to  convince  myself that
the pain was just weakness leaving the body, something like that.
     Trainers  jumped  up to turn off the BBC  breakfast  news,  showing the
embankment,  as Sundance  opened up his phone. He knew who it was. There was
no preliminary waffle, just nods and grunts.
     Trainers hit  the  kettle button as the  StarT  ac was closed down  and
Sundance rolled himself off the settee. He gave me a big grin  as he brushed
back his hair with spread fingers.
     "You have a visitor, and dye know what? He doesn't sound too pleased."
     It was the witching hour.
     I sat up and leant into the  corner of  the brick walls as they  pulled
the armchairs apart and put their shirts on while waiting  for the kettle to
boil.
     It  wasn't long before I heard  a vehicle and Trainers went out to open
the shutter. Sundance just stood  there  staring  at  me,  trying to  get me
flapping.
     The kettle  cut out  with a click just  before  the  shutter opened; it
looked like their brew was on hold  for a while. I pulled myself up  against
the wall.
     The slamming of car doors drowned out the sound of Kennington's morning
commute.
     Before  the shutter had  come down, the  Yes Man was striding  into the
room.
     Throwing a glance at Sundance, he  walked towards  me, screwing up  his
nose at the smell of roll-ups, chips and early-morning farts.
     He was dressed today in a light grey suit, and still in enraged-teacher
mode. He stopped a couple of paces short of me, put  his hands  on his hips,
and looked down at me in disgust.
     "You,  Stone, are going to be  given one chance,  just  one, to rectify
matters. You don't know how very  lucky you are." He  checked his watch. The
target has just left the UK. You will follow him tonight, to Panama, and you
will kill this target by last light Friday."
     I kept my head down and let my legs flop out straight, just inches from
his highly polished black brogues, and raised my eyes to him.
     Sundance made a move towards me. Should  I be saying something? The Yes
Man held up a hand to stop him, without taking his eyes off me.
     "PARC are waiting for the delivery of a missile launch control system a
computer guidance console to you."
     I looked down again, concentrating on the pattern of his shoes.
     "Are you listening?"
     Nodding slowly, I rubbed my sore eyes.
     "One anti-aircraft missile is already in their possession.  It  will be
the  first  of many. The  launch  system has to be stopped  if PARC  have  a
complete weapons  system in  their hands  the implications for Plan Colombia
will be catastrophic.
     There are six  hundred million  dollars'  worth  of  US  helicopters in
Colombia,  along  with  their  crews  and  support. PARC  must  not get  the
capability to shoot them down. They must not get that launch control system.
You  don't  need  to know  why,  but the young  man's death  will  stop that
happening. Period."
     He  hunched  down  and thrust his face so  close to  mine I could smell
menthol  aftershave,  probably  for  sensitive  skin.  There  was a whiff of
halitosis,  too, as  we  had eye-to-eye  just  inches  apart. He breathed in
slowly,  to  help me understand  that  what he was about to say was more  in
sorrow than in anger.
     "You  will  carry  out  this task  in  the  time  specified,  with  due
diligence. If not? No matter when next week,  next month, or  even next year
when the time  is right, we will kill  her. You know who  I'm talking about,
that  Little Orphan Annie  of  yours. She will simply  cease to exist and it
will be your doing. Only you can stop that happening."
     He burned with the kind of evangelical zeal I supposed he'd copied from
whoever he'd heard in the pulpit last week, while Sundance smirked and moved
back towards the settee.
     The Yes Man hadn't finished with me yet. His tone shifted.
     "She must be about eleven now, eh? I've been told that she's settled in
very well  back in the States. It  seems that Joshua is doing an  absolutely
sterling  job. It must be hard for you now she lives  there, eh? Missing her
growing up, turning into a fine young woman..."
     I kept my  eyes  down, concentrating  on a  minute crack in one of  the
tiles as he carried on with his sermon.
     That's the same age as my daughter. They're so funny at that age, don't
you think? One minute wanting to be all grown up, the next needing to cuddle
their teddies. I read her a  story last night when  I'd  tucked her in. They
look  so wonderful, yet so vulnerable  like that...  Did you read  to Kelly,
isn't it?"
     I  wouldn't  give him  the  satisfaction  of  an acknowledgement,  just
concentrated hard on my  tile,  trying to  show  no reaction.  He was really
making a meal of this. He took another deep breath, his knees cracking as he
straightened up and hovered above me once more.
     "This is about power, Stone, who has it and who does not. You do not.
     Personally, I am not in favour of you being given a second  chance, but
there is the broader matter of policy to consider."
     I  didn't  exactly  understand what that meant, but it was a fair guess
he'd been told to sort out this situation or he'd be severely in the shit.
     "Why kill the boy?" I said.
     "Why not the father? I presume he's the one moving this system."
     He kicked my  thigh with his shiny toecap. It  was  pure frustration. I
was sure he'd meant it to be harder, but just didn't have it in him.
     "Clean yourself up look  at the  state of you. Now go. These  gentlemen
will collect you from your residence at three."
     He gave  'residence'  the  full  three  syllables,  enjoying every one.
Sundance  smiled like the village idiot as I hauled  myself to my  feet, the
muscles in my stomach protesting badly.
     "I  need  money."  I  looked down like a  scolded schoolboy  as I leant
against the wall, and that was exactly how I felt.
     The Yes Man sighed with impatience and nodded at Sundance. The Jock dug
out  his wallet from  the back of  his jeans,  and  counted  out eighty-five
pounds.
     'You owe me, boy."
     I just  took it,  not bothering  to mention the  six hundred US dollars
he'd liberated from my pocket, and which had already been split  between the
two of them.
     Jamming it into my jeans, I started to walk, not  looking  at either of
them as I  reached the  door. Trainers saw  me in the doorframe and  hit the
shutter, but not before the  Yes  Man had the last word: "You'd better  make
good use of  that money, Stone. There is no  more.  In fact,  think yourself
lucky you're  keeping  what  you already have. After all, Orphan Annie  will
need new shoes from time to time, and  her treatment in the States will cost
a great deal more than it did at the Moorings."
     Fifteen minutes  later I was on the tube from Kennington, heading north
towards Camden Town. The dilapidated old train was packed tight with morning
commuters, nearly every one radiating soap, toothpaste and  designer smells.
I was  the exception,  which was bad luck  for  the people I was  sandwiched
between:   a  massive  black  guy  who'd  turned   his  crisply   laundered,
white-shirted back on me, and  a young white  woman who  didn't dare look up
from the floor in case our eyes met and  she sparked  off the madman reeking
of bile and roll-ups.
     The front pages of the morning papers were covered with dramatic colour
pictures of the  police attacking  the sniper positions and the promise of a
lot more to come  inside.  I just held  on to the handrail and stared at the
dot-com holiday adverts, not wanting to  read  them, instead letting my head
jolt from side to side as we trundled north. I was in a  daze, trying to get
my head round what had happened, and getting nowhere.
     What could I do with Kelly? Nip over to Maryland, pick her up, run away
and hide in  the woods? Taking her away from Josh was pure fantasy: it would
only  screw  her  up  even more  than  she  was already.  It  would only  be
short-term, in any event: if the Firm wanted her dead, they'd make it happen
eventually. What about telling Josh? No need: the Firm  wouldn't do anything
unless I failed. Besides, why stir him up any more than I had already?
     I let my head drop and stared at  my  feet as  we got  to a station and
people  fought each other  to get  on and  off all at the  same time. I  got
shoved and jostled and gave an involuntary gasp of pain.
     As  the carriage repacked itself for  the journey under  the Thames,  a
pissed-off voice on the PA  system told everybody to  move right down inside
the cars, and the doors eventually closed.
     I didn't  know if the  Yes Man was bluffing any more, probably, than he
knew if I was. But it made no difference. Even if I did expose the job, that
wouldn't  stop Sundance  and Trainers  taking their trip to Maryland.  There
were  enough  Serb  families short of a kid or two because  Dad  hadn't gone
along with the Firm's demands during the latest Balkan wars, and  I  knew it
hadn't stopped there.
     Try as I  might, I couldn't  stop myself  picturing  Kelly tucked up in
bed, her hair  spread in a mess over the pillow as she dreamt of being a pop
star. The  Yes Man was  right, they did look  both wonderful and  vulnerable
like that. My blood ran cold as I realized that the end of this job wouldn't
put an end to the threats. She would be used against me time and again.
     We stopped at another station and the crowd ebbed and flowed once more.
I  took  a  deep  breath and exhaled slowly. I  was starting to get pins and
needles  in my legs. No matter which way I looked at it, my only option  was
to kill the boy.
     No, not a boy, let's get this right, just as the Yes Man said, he was a
young  man  some  of  those weapons being cocked in the aircraft hangar  all
those years ago had been held by people younger than him.
     I had fucked up big-time. I should have killed him yesterday when I had
the chance. If I  didn't do  this job Kelly would die, simple as that and  I
couldn't let that happen. I wouldn't fuck up again. I'd do what the Yes  Man
wanted, and I'd do it by last light Friday.
     The train  stopped again and most of the passengers left for their jobs
in the  City. I was knackered and fell into a  seat before my legs gave out.
As I wiped the beads of sweat off my brow, my mind kept going back to Kelly,
and the thought that I was going to Panama to kill someone just so that Josh
could have her to look after. It was madness, but what was new about that?
     Josh might  not exactly be my mate, these  days,  but he was  still the
closest thing I had to  one.  He'd talk through gritted teeth, but at  least
he'd talk to me about Kelly. She'd been living with Josh and  his kids since
mid-August, just a  couple of weeks after  her  therapy  sessions  had ended
prematurely in London when the Yes Man handed me the sniper job.
     She  hadn't  fully  recovered  from  her  PTSD  (post-traumatic  stress
disorder),  and  I  didn't know whether she  ever  would.  Seeing your whole
family head-jobbed took some recovering  from. She was a fighter, just  like
her dad  had been, and  had made dramatic strides this  summer.  She'd moved
from being a curled-up bundle of nothing to  being able to  function outside
the private care home in Hampstead where  she'd spent  the  best part of the
last  ten months. She  wasn't in mainstream schooling yet  with Josh's kids,
but that would happen soon. Or at least I hoped it would: she needed private
tuition and that didn't come cheap -and now the Yes  Man  had cancelled  the
second half of the  money... Since  March I'd had to commit myself  to being
with her during the therapy  sessions three times  a week in Chelsea, and on
all the other days had visited her at the  place in Hampstead where  she was
being looked after. Kelly and I would tube it down to the plush clinic,  the
Moorings.  Sometimes  we'd  talk  on  the  journey,  mostly about  kids' TV;
sometimes we'd sit in silence.  On  occasion,  she'd just cuddle into me and
sleep.
     Dr. Hughes was in her mid-fifties and looked more like an American news
reader than a shrink in her leather armchair. I didn't  particularly like it
when Kelly said something that Hughes considered meaningful. She would  tilt
her elegant head and look at me over the top of her gold half-moons.
     "How do you feel about that, Nick?"
     My answer was always the same: "We're here for Kelly, not me." That was
because I was an emotional dwarf. I must be Josh told me so.
     The train shuddered and squeaked to a  halt at Camden  Town. I joined a
green haired punk, a bunch of suits and some early-start tourists as  we all
rode the up  escalator. Camden  High  Street  was teeming  with  traffic and
pedestrians.  We were  greeted  by  a  white Rastafarian guy juggling  three
bean-bags for spare change and an old drunk with his can of Tennants waiting
for Pizza Express to open so that he could go and shout at its windows.  The
din of pneumatic drills  on the building site opposite echoed all around us,
making even people passing in their cars wince.
     I diced with death as I crossed the road to get into Superdrug and pick
up some washing and shaving  kit, then walked along  the  high street to get
something to eat, hands in my pockets  and eyes down at the pavement like  a
dejected teenager.
     I waded through  KFC boxes, kebab wrappers and  smashed Bacardi Breezer
bottles that hadn't been cleaned up from the night before. As I'd discovered
when  I  moved in,  there  was a disproportionate  number  of pubs and clubs
around here.
     Camden High Street and its markets  seemed  quite a tourist attraction.
It was  just before ten o'clock but most of the clothes shops already had an
amazing array of  gear hanging outside  their  shop fronts, from psychedelic
flares  to  leather  bondage trousers  and  multicoloured Doc  Martens. Shop
workers tried ceaselessly to lure Norwegians or Americans, with day sacks on
their backs and maps in their hands, inside with loud music and a smile.
     I passed under  the scaffold that covered the pavement on the corner of
Inverness  Street  and got a nod from the Bosnian  refugee who sold smuggled
cigarettes out of a sports bag.  He was holding  out a  couple of cartons to
passers-by and  in his leather-look PVC bomber jacket and tracksuit  bottoms
he looked just like I felt, tired of life. We knew each other by sight and I
nodded back before turning left into the market. My stomach  was so empty it
ached, adding to the pain from the kicking. I was  really looking forward to
breakfast.
     The caff  was full of construction workers taking a break from building
the new Gap and Starbucks. Their dirty yellow hardhats were lined up against
the wall like helmets at a fire station, whilst they filled their faces with
the three quid all-day breakfast. The room was  a  noisy haze  of fried food
and cigarette smoke, probably courtesy of the Bosnian. I put in my order and
listened to the radio behind the counter while I picked up my mug of instant
coffee.  The  news  on  Capital  gave  only  bullet-point  headlines   about
yesterday's terrorist incident.
     It was already taking second place to Posh Spice's new hairdo.
     I settled  down at a  four-seater wrought-iron-and-marble-effect garden
table, moved the overflowing ashtray out of the way, and stared at the sugar
bowl. The pins and needles  had  returned and I found that my elbows were on
the table and  my  face was  stuck  in  my  hands.  For  some reason  I  was
remembering being  seven  years old, tears running down  my face, trying  to
explain  to my  stepfather  that I  was  scared of  the  dark. Instead  of a
comforting cuddle and  the bedroom light left  on, I got a slapped  face and
told not to be  such  a wimp or the night monster  would come out from under
the bed and  eat  me. He used to make  me flap big-time,  and I'd  spend the
whole night curled up under the blanket, petrified, thinking that as long as
I didn't look out the night monster wouldn't get me.
     The same feeling of terror and helplessness was with me again after all
these years.
     I was jolted from my trance.
     "Set breakfast, extra egg?"
     That7 s me!"
     I  sat back down  and threw bacon, sausage and  egg  down  my  neck and
started to  think about  my  shopping  list.  At  least I wouldn't need much
clothing for my  Central American trip. There now, maybe things weren't that
bad: at least I was going somewhere warm.
     I'd never been to Panama, but had operated on  its border with Colombia
against PARC (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia) while in the Regiment.
We  were  part  of  the  UK's  first-strike  policy   in  the  eighties,  an
American-funded  operation to hit  drug manufacture at source,  which  meant
getting   into   the   jungle   for   weeks  on   end,   finding   the  DMPs
(drug-manufacturing plants) and destroying them  to slow the trafficking  to
the UK  and US. We might  as well not have bothered. Over 70 per cent of the
cocaine entering the States still originated from Colombia, and up to 75 per
cent of the heroin seized on the east coast of the US was Colombian.
     PARC  had their fingers in a substantial amount  of that pie, and those
kinds of numbers were also heading this way, to the UK.
     Having operated in the region for over a year, I still took an interest
especially as  most of  the  Colombians I'd  cared  anything about  had been
killed in the war. To keep the peace with PARC, the Colombian government had
given them control  of  an area  the size  of Switzerland,  and they ran all
their operations from there. It was hoped that  things would change now that
Plan Colombia was getting into full swing. Clinton had  given the  Colombian
government a $1.3 billion military  aid package  to combat drug trafficking,
including  over  sixty  of the  Yes  Man's  precious  Huey  and  Black  Hawk
helicopters, along with other  military assistance.  But I wasn't holding my
breath. It was going to be a long and dirty war.
     I also knew  that, for most of  the twentieth century, the USA had paid
for, run  and protected  the Panama  Canal and stationed SOUTH  COM  (the US
Army's Southern Command) in-country. It was  SOUTH COM that had directed all
military  and intelligence operations from Mexico's  southern border to Cape
Horn  during  my  time  in  Colombia. Thousands  of US  troops  and aircraft
stationed in Panama had been responsible for all the anti-drug operations in
Central and South America, but that  had stopped at midnight  on 31 December
1999 when the US handed back control  of the canal to the locals,  and SOUTH
COM  and all American presence  was withdrawn. It was now fragmented, spread
around bases all over Central America and the Caribbean, and nowhere near as
effective at fighting any kind of war as it once had been.
     From what I'd read, the  hand-over of the canal had  sort of sneaked up
on the American public. And when they discovered that a Chinese company, not
American, had been awarded the contract to operate  the ports at each end of
the canal and take over some  of  the old  US military facilities, the right
wing went ape shit I couldn't see the problem myself:
     Chinese-owned companies ran ports all around the world, including Dover
and others  in this country.  I hadn't  thought of it at the time, but maybe
that was  why the Chinaman  had  been in  the delegation, as part of the new
order in Central America.
     I felt  a little better after some death-by-cholesterol, and  left  the
caff wiping egg yolk  off my fingers and on to my jeans, where a fair amount
of it had dribbled anyway.
     A fifteen-minute shopping frenzy in the market bought me a new pair  of
rip-off  Levi's for sixteen  quid, a  blue sweatshirt  for seven, a pair  of
boxers and a pack of three pairs of socks for another five.
     I carried  on  walking  past  fruit and  veg  stalls until  I  came  to
Arlington Road, and turned right by the Good Mixer pub, a  1960s monstrosity
in need of a lick of paint. The usual suspects were sitting  against the pub
wall, three old men, unshaven and unwashed, throwing cans of Strongbow Super
down their necks obviously  this week's  special offer at Oddbins. All three
held  out their grime ingrained palms for money without even  looking up  at
the people they were begging from.
     I was just a few minutes away from a hot shower. Maybe a hundred metres
ahead,  outside  my  impressive Victorian redbrick  residence, I  could  see
someone being troll eyed  into the back of an  | ambulance. This was nothing
unusual around here, and no one r passing gave it a second look.
     (   Walking   past   the   graffiti-filled   walls  of   the  decaying,
pollution-stained  buildings,  I  approached  the  front  entrance  as   the
ambulance moved off. There was a white Transit behind it.
     Gathered around its open rear doors  were a group of Eastern Europeans,
all carrying sports bags or day sacks Of course it was Monday: the boys from
Manchester were dishing out smuggled cigarettes and rolling tobacco for them
to sell in the market and pubs.
     Two worn stone steps took me to a  set  of large, glazed  wooden  doors
which I pushed my way through. I buzzed  to be let through the second lot of
security doors, and pressed my head against the glass so whoever was on duty
could check me out.
     The  door  buzzed  and I pushed through. I got a  smile off  Maureen at
reception,  a  huge, fifty-year-old  woman  who had  a liking for tent-sized
flowery  dresses, and a face like a bulldog with  constipation.  She took no
nonsense from anybody. She looked me up and down with an arched eyebrow.
     "Hello, darling, what you doing here?"
     I put on my happy face.
     "I missed you."
     She rolled her eyes and gave her usual loud bass laugh.
     "Yeah, right."
     "Is  there any chance of using a shower? It's just that the plumbing in
my new place has gone on the blink." I held up my bag of washing kit for her
to see.
     She rolled her eyes at my  story and sucked  her teeth, not believing a
word of it.
     "Ten minutes, don't tell."
     "Maureen, you're the best."
     Tell me something I don't know, darling.  Remember, ten minutes, that's
your lot."
     I'd  only said  about a dozen words to her all the time I'd lived here.
This was the closest we'd been to a conversation for months.
     I  walked up  the  steps  to  the second floor,  where  the  decor  was
easy-clean, thick-gloss  walls and a light  grey industrial-lino  staircase,
then walked along the narrow corridor, heading  for the showers at the  end.
To my left were rows of doors to bedrooms, and  I could hear their occupants
mumbling to  themselves, coughing, snoring.  The corridor smelt of  beer and
cigarettes, with stale bread slices and dog-ends trodden into the threadbare
carpet.
     There was a bit of a racket on the floor above as some old  guy gob bed
off, having an argument with himself, and profanities bounced off the walls.
It was sometimes difficult to work out if it was alcohol, drugs or  a mental
condition with these guys. Either way, Care in the Community seemed to  mean
leaving them to look after themselves.
     The showers were three stained cubicles and I got  into the centre one,
slowly peeling off my clothes as men wandered around the corridor and noises
echoed.
     Once undressed, I turned  on the  water. I was in a  daze  again,  just
wanting my day to  end, i;?, forcing myself to check the bruising on my legs
and chest, even though I didn't care if it hurt. I  Somebody in the corridor
called out  my  name, and I  re cog- lr nized the voice.  I didn't  know his
name, just that he was always s drunk. As with  the rest of them, it was the
only way that he  could escape his  miserable  life.  In a slurred  northern
accent he shouted the same old thing, over and over again, about how God had
fucked him  over. He used to have a  wife,  kids, a house, a job. It had all
gone wrong, he'd lost everything, and it was all God's fault.
     I got under the water, trying my hardest to block out  the noise as the
others started to join in, telling him to shut the fuck up.
     The council-run 'hostel'  was what we used to call a doss-house when we
were kids.  Nowadays it  was filled not only with home less men of every age
with  uniformly  sad lives, but also  Bosnian, Serbian and Kosovan refugees,
who seemed  to have brought  their  ' war to London as they  fought  amongst
themselves in the corridors and washrooms.
     The noises outside  the shower  started  to merge  and magnify side  my
head. My heartbeat went into  overdrive and my legs  felt numb with pins and
needles again. I slumped down in the shower tray and covered my ears with my
hands.
     I  just sat there covering my  ears, squeezing my eyes shut,  trying to
block  out  the noise,  plagued  by  the  same  childlike  terror  that  had
overwhelmed me in the cafe.
     The  image  that the  Yes Man had planted  in my head, of Kelly in  bed
asleep, in the dark,  was still with me. She'd be there now, this minute, in
Maryland. She would be in her bunk bed, below Josh's eldest daughter. I knew
exactly how she  would look. I had woken  up and tucked her back in so  many
times when it was cold, or when a memory of her murdered family had returned
to haunt her. She would be half in, half out of her duvet, stretched out  on
her back,  arms and legs out like a starfish, sucking  her bottom  lip,  her
eyes flickering under their lids as she dreamed.
     Then  I thought  of  her dead. No sucking of the  lip,  no REM,  just a
stiff,  dead starfish. I tried to imagine how I would feel if that happened,
knowing that I had the responsibility to make sure that it didn't. It didn't
bear thinking about. I wasn't sure if it was in my head, or I was yelling it
out loud, but  I heard my own voice shout, "How the fuck did you end up like
this?"
     EIGHT
     I was turning into one of those nutters out there in  the corridor. I'd
never  had much difficulty understanding why they turned to drink  and drugs
to escape the shit of the real world.
     I sat there for  a few minutes longer,  just feeling  sorry for myself,
looking at the only things I had to  show for my progress  through the  real
world:  a pink dent  in  my stomach from  a 9mm  round, and the  neat row of
puncture holes on my right forearm from a North Carolina police dog.
     I lifted my head out of my hands and gave myself a strict talking-to.
     "Sort yourself out, dickhead! Get a grip. Get yourself out of this ..."
     I  had to  cut away, just like  I'd learnt to  do as a  kid. No one was
coming to help me deal with the night monster; I had to get on with it on my
own.
     I cleared my nostrils of mucus, and it  was only then that I realized I
must have been crying.
     Hauling myself to my feet I pulled  out the washing and shaving kit and
got to work. After I'd cleaned myself up I stayed in the cubicle for another
ten minutes, using my old clothes to dry myself. I threw on my new jeans and
sweatshirt; the  only old things I put  back on were  my Timberlands, bomber
jacket and belt.
     I left everything else in the shower they could have that as my leaving
present   and  walked  back  along  the  corridor.  Through  his  open  door
whatever-his-name-was had finished gob bing off about God and collapsed face
down on his urine-stained bed. A bit further on, I passed the closed door to
my old cell-like room. I'd only  left the  previous Saturday  but it already
had  a new occupant; I could hear a radio being tuned in. He,  too, probably
had his  carton of  milk out  on  the sill of the narrow window. We all  did
well, the ones who had a kettle.
     I made my  way down the stairs, brushing my  hair back with  my fingers
and regaining some composure.
     Down  in the reception area, I picked up the wall-mounted phone, shoved
in  six and a half quid's worth of coins, and started dialling  Josh, trying
desperately to think of an excuse  for calling  him so early. The east coast
of the US was five hours behind.
     The distinctive tone rang  just twice before  I heard a sleepy American
grunt.
     "Yeah?"
     "Josh, it's me,  Nick." I  hoped  he  wouldn't notice the tremor in  my
voice.
     "What do you want, Nick? It's just after six."
     I covered the other ear to  cut  out some young guy who  needed help up
the  stairs  from  an old  drunk  as  he staggered  about  with  glazed  and
drugged-out eyes. I'd seen them both before: the old guy was his father, who
also lived in.
     "I  know, I'm sorry, mate.  It's just that  I can't make  it until next
Tuesday and
     I-'
     There  was a loud  sigh. He'd heard my I-can't-make-it routine  so many
times  before. He knew nothing of my situation, he knew nothing of what  had
been going on this last few  months. All he'd seen of me  was  the  money  I
sent.
     "Look, I know, mate, I'm sorry, I really can't make it."
     The  earpiece barked: "Why can't  you  get  your life in good order? We
arranged this  Tuesday  that's tomorrow, man. She's got her heart set on it.
She loves you so much, man, so much -don't you get it? You can't just breeze
in and-' I knew what  he was  going to say  and  cut in,  almost begging, "I
know, I know. I'm sorry .. ." I  knew  where the conversation was going  and
also knew that he was right in taking it there.
     "Please, Josh can I talk with her?"
     If He lost his cool for once and went ballistic.
     "No!"
     "I-.."
     It was too late; he'd hung up.
     I  slumped down on a plastic  stack able chair, staring at  one of  the
notice boards telling people what and what not to do, and how to do it.
     "You OK, darling?"
     I looked across at Maureen,  the other side of the reception. She waved
me over, sounding like an older sister, I supposed.
     "You look fed up. Come and have a chat, come on, darling."
     My mind was elsewhere as I  approached the hole in  the wall  that gave
access  of a kind to her desk. It was  at head height.  Anything bigger  and
lower  and she  wouldn't  have  had  any protection from the  drunks and the
drugged-up who had a problem with the house rules.
     "Been a bad call to that little girl of yours?"
     "What?"
     "You keep  yourself  to  yourself, but  I see things  from this  little
cubbyhole, you know. I've heard you on the phone,  coming off more depressed
than when you went  on. I don't just buzz the door open, you know!" She gave
a loud roar as I smiled and acknowledged her attempt to cheer me up.
     "Was it a bad one, darling? You
     OK?"
     It was all right."
     "That's  good,  I'm glad. You know, I've watched you come in and out of
here,  looking so  sad. I reckoned  it was a divorce1 can normally  tell. It
must  be hard  not  seeing your little 'un.  I  was just  worried about you,
that's all, darling."
     "No need, Maureen, things are OK, really."
     She tutted in agreement.
     "Good ...  good,  but,  you  know, things normally-' Her  attention was
drawn momentarily to the staircase. Kosovans or whoever had started shouting
angrily at each other on one  of the upper landings. She shrugged  at me and
grinned.
     "Well, let's just say things have a way of sorting themselves out. I've
seen that look of  yours  in  here before. And I tell them all the same, and
I'm always right. Things can only get better, you'll see."
     At that moment a fight erupted above us somewhere and a
     Nike  sports  bag  tumbled  down  the  stairs,  soon  followed  by  its
tobacco-selling owner  in  a  brown V-neck  jumper and  white socks. Maureen
reached for her two-way radio as a couple of  guys jumped down after him and
started giving  the boy a good kicking. Maureen talked into her radio with a
calm assurance that only comes from years of experience.
     I leant  against the wall as a couple more tobacco-sellers appeared and
tried to stop the fight.
     Within  minutes,  sirens  were  wailing  in the  distance,  and getting
louder. Maureen hit the door buzzer and tobacco-sellers bomb-burst back into
the  hostel,  bags in hand, thinking  they were  getting raided,  running to
their  rooms  to  hide  their stashes and leaving  the  boys from Manchester
outside to fend for themselves.
     Close behind them, four police officers pushed their way in to sort out
the fracas.
     I checked  Baby-G, a new black one with purple illumination. Over three
hours to go  before pick-up, and there was nothing I wanted to  do. I didn't
want to eat, didn't want to  drink, didn't even want to just sit around, and
I certainly didn't want Maureen gazing into my soul,  no  matter how helpful
she was trying to be.  She  knew too much already.  So I started heading out
towards the street, nodding my thanks. Even in a time of crisis  she gave me
a second of her time.
     "You need to  stop worrying,  Nick. Worrying too much affects this, you
know." She tapped the side of her forehead with her index finger.
     "I've seen enough of that in here to know, darling."
     One  of the phones rang  behind her  as the scuffle  continued  at  the
bottom of the stairs.
     "Got to go, luv. I hope things work out  for you they normally  do, you
know. Good luck, darling."
     Once outside,  the  noise  of  the  construction site  drowned  out the
shouting.  I slouched  on  the  steps, staring at  the  paving slabs as  the
fighters were dragged  away, their angry  voices lost  amongst  the  roar of
pneumatic drills.
     On  the dot of 3 p.m. the Merc cruised past and found  a  space further
down the road. Trainers was at the wheel and Sundance next to him. They left
the engine running.
     I unstuck my very numb arse  from the steps and  dragged myself towards
them. They were dressed in the  same  clothes as this morning,  and drinking
coffee out of paper cups. I took my  time not to make them wait, but because
my body couldn't move any quicker, just like my mind.
     They gave  me no acknowledgement as I got into the  back  and they  put
their seatbelts back on.
     Sundance  threw a  brown envelope over his shoulder  at me  as we drove
off.
     "I've  already taken five hundred out of  the  account, so don't bother
trying again today. That covers the eighty-five sub plus interest."
     They grinned at each other. The job had its compensations.
     My new  passport and  credit  card were  hot off the press but  looking
suitably aged, along with my  new  PIN  number and  open-return air  ticket,
leaving Miami to Panama City, 7.05 a.m. tomorrow. How I got to Miami by then
didn't bother me I'd be told soon enough.
     I flicked through my visas  so I knew that I'd been on holiday  for two
weeks  in Morocco in July.  The stamps were all related to the truth  I  had
been there, just not as recently. But at least it meant I could bluff my way
through  a routine check at  Immigration and  Customs. The rest  of my cover
story would be the same as ever, just travelling after a boring life selling
insurance; I had done most  of Europe, now I  wanted to  see the rest of the
world.
     I  still wasn't impressed by my cover name, though.  Hoff why  Hoff? It
didn't sound right. Nick Hoff, Nick Hoff. It didn't even start with the same
letter  as  my real  surname,  so  it was difficult not to  get confused and
hesitant  when signing  a  signature.  Hoff sounded unnatural: if  you  were
called Hoff,  you wouldn't christen your son  Nicholas unless you  wanted to
give him  a tough time at school: it  sounded  like  someone with  a  speech
impediment saying 'knickers off.
     Sundance didn't ask for a signature, and that bothered me. I got pissed
off with bullshit when it was official, but even more so when it wasn't.
     "What about my CA?" I asked.
     "Can I call them?"
     Sundance didn't bother to look round as we bumped along in the traffic.
     "It's already done." He  dipped  into his jeans and brought out a scrap
of paper.
     "The new mini  roundabout has been built at last, but everyone is still
waiting  on the decision about the bypass. That comes through some time next
month."
     I nodded; it  was an update on the local news from what the Yes Man had
renamed the Cover Address. James  and Rosemary had loved me like a son since
I  boarded  with  them years  ago, or so the cover story went. I even had  a
bedroom there, and some clothes in the wardrobe.
     These were the people who would both confirm my cover story and be part
of it.
     They'd never take  any action on my  behalf, but would back me up if  I
needed them to.
     "That's where I live," I could tell whoever was questioning me.
     "Phone them, ask them."
     I visited  James  and Rosemary  whenever I could,  so my cover  had got
stronger as time passed. They knew nothing about the ops and didn't want to;
we would  just talk about what was going on at the social club, and a bit of
other local  and personal stuff. I  needed to know  these things  because  I
would do if I lived there all the time. I hadn't wanted to use them for  the
sniper job, because that would  have meant the Firm knowing  the name  I was
travelling under, and where to.
     As things had turned out, it looked as if I'd been right.
     Sundance started to tell me how I was going to make it to Miami in time
for my flight to  Panama. The Yes Man hadn't hung about. Within four hours I
was going to be lying  in a sleeping  bag on top of  some crates of military
kit stuffed into an R.A.F  Tristar, leaving R.A.F Brize Norton, near Oxford,
for Fort Campbell in Kentucky, where a  Jock infantry battalion was having a
joint exercise with the 101st Airborne Division "Screaming Eagles'. They had
given  up their  parachutes  years  ago  and  now  screamed around  in  more
helicopters than nearly all of the European armies put  together. There were
no commercial flights  this time of day that would get  me where I needed to
be by tomorrow morning;  this was the only way. I  was getting kicked off in
Florida, and a US visa waiver would be  stamped in my passport at the Marine
base. I then had three hours in which to transfer  to Miami airport and make
the flight to Panama.
     Sundance growled as he looked out at two women waiting for a bus.
     "Once you get there you are being sponsored by two doctors." He glanced
at his notes again.
     "Carrie and Aaron Yanklewitz. Fucking stupid name."
     He looked at Trainers, who nodded  in agreement before getting  back to
the scrap of paper.
     There will be no contact with  Mr. Frampton  or anyone here. Everything
to, or from, is via their handler."
     I  wondered  if  there  was just a  faint chance  the Yanklewitzes were
Polish Americans. My head was pressed against  the window as I gazed  out at
real life passing me by.
     "Are you listening, fuckhead?"
     I looked  in the  rear-view  mirror  and  could  see him, waiting for a
reply. I nodded.
     They'll  be  at  the airport  with a  name card  and a  pass number  of
thirteen. You got that? Thirteen."
     I nodded once more, this time not bothering to look at him.
     They'll show you the  wee boy's house, and should have all the  imagery
and stuff by the time you  get there. They don't know what your job is.  But
we do, don't we, boy?" He swivelled round to face me  as I continued to gaze
at nothing in particular, not feeling anything, just numb.
     "And that's  to finish the job, isn't it?" He jabbed the air between us
with his forefinger as he spoke.
     "You're going to finish what you were paid to do. And it's going  to be
done by Friday, last light. Do you understand, Stone? Finish it."
     I felt more depressed and pissed off each time the job was mentioned.
     "I'd be lost without you."
     Sundance's  finger and thumb jabbed  the air again  as he made  not too
good a job of containing his rage.
     "Kill the fucking boy." He spat the words and flecks of saliva showered
on to my face.
     I  got the feeling  everyone  was under pressure in this car, and I bet
that  was because the  Yes Man was himself.  I wondered if C  had been  told
about  my security blanket  or had  the Yes Man  decided to claim  that  the
'scuppering' was down to bad com ms After  all, that  was what I'd told him,
wasn't it? I couldn't remember now.
     The Yes Man  had probably told C that  good old  Stone whom  C wouldn't
know if I fell out of  the  sky and landed on his head -was on the case, and
everything was going to be just fine. But I had the sneaking suspicion I was
only going to  Panama instead of Beachy  Head  because I was the only one on
the books soft enough in the head to try to pull it off.
     As we joined the A40 out of London and  headed for  Brize, I  tried  to
focus  on  the  job. I needed to fill  my head  with work instead of woe. At
least  that  was  the  theory.  But it  was easier said  than  done.  I  was
penniless.  I'd sold the  Ducati, the house in  Norfolk, even the furniture,
everything apart  from what I  could  shove  into  a sports  bag, to pay for
Kelly's  treatment. Twenty-four-hour  private care in  leafy  Hampstead  and
regular trips to the Moorings had cleaned me out.
     Walking  away from the Norfolk house  for  the last  time, I'd felt the
same trepidation I  had as a  sixteen-year-old walking away from the housing
estate to join the Army. Back then, I hadn't had a sports bag, but a pair of
holed socks, a still-wrapped bar of Wright's Coal Tar soap, and one very old
toothbrush in a Co-op plastic carrier. I planned to buy the toothpaste on my
first pay day, not knowing when exactly that was, or how much I was going to
get.  I hadn't  really cared, because however bad the Army might be, it  was
getting  me out  of a life  of correction  centres and  a stepfather who had
graduated from slaps to punches.
     Since March,  the start of Kelly's therapy, I hadn't been able to work.
And  with no national insurance number, no record of employment  not so much
as a postcard  to prove my existence  after  leaving the Regiment I couldn't
even claim the dole or income support. The Firm wasn't  going to help: I was
deniable.
     And no one  at  Vauxhall Cross wants to know you if you  aren't able to
work, or if there isn't any to give you.
     For the  first month or so of her sessions I'd done the bed sit shuffle
around  London if I  was lucky,  being able  to do  a  runner  whenever  the
landlord  was  stupid enough not to  ask for money up front. Then, with  the
help of  Nick Somerhurst's national  insurance  number  bought  in  the Good
Mixer,  I was able to get a place  in  the hostel, lining up at mealtimes by
the Hari Krishna van, just outside the Mecca bingo hall.  It had also got me
the Somerhurst passport and  supporting documents. I didn't want to have the
Yes Man tracking me with docs from the Firm.
     I couldn't help smiling as I remembered one of the Krishna gang, Peter,
a young guy who always had a grin on his face. He had a shaved head and skin
so pale he looked as if he  should have been dead, but I  soon discovered he
was  very much  alive. Dressed  in  his  rusty red robes, hand  knitted blue
cardigan,  and  a multicoloured woolly hat, he used to  run about inside the
rusty white Mercedes van, pouring tea, dishing out great  curries and bread,
doing the Krishna rap.
     "Yo, Nick! Krishnaaa, Krishnaaaa, Krishnaaaa. Yo!
     Hari rammaaaaa." I never felt  quite up to joining  in, though  some of
the others did, especially the drunks. As he danced about inside the van the
tea would  spill  and the odd slice of bread would fall off the paper plate,
but it was still much appreciated.
     I  went on staring out of the  window,  cocooned in my own little rusty
world while the other one passed me by on the street.
     The A40 opened  up into motorway and Sundance decided it was time for a
bit of a performance.
     "You know what?" He looked over at Trainers, making sure I could hear.
     Trainers swung into the outside  lane  at the same time as passing  his
tobacco to Sundance.
     "What's that, then?"
     "I wouldn't mind a trip to Maryland ... We  could go  to Washington and
do the sights first..."
     I  knew  what they  were trying to do to me and I continued to stare at
the hard shoulder.
     Trainers was sounding enthusiastic.
     "It'd be good craze, I'm telling yer."
     Sundance finished licking the Rizla before answering.
     "Aye, it would. I hear Laurel..." He turned to face me.
     "That's where she lives now, isn't it?"
     I didn't answer. He knew very well it was. Sundance turned back to face
the road.
     "Well, I hear  it's very picturesque there -you  know,  trees and grass
and all that shite. Anyway,  after we finished up there in Laurel, you could
take me to see that half-sister of yours in New York .. ."
     "No fucking way you're getting near her!"
     I had a terrible feeling in the pit of  my stomach  and had to  breathe
out  quickly as I  thought  about what might happen if I  didn't get the job
done.  But  I was fucked if I was going to play their game.  Besides, I  was
just too tired to react.
     Just over an hour later  the  Merc  pulled up outside the  air movement
centre at Brize, and Trainers got out to organize the next stage of my life.
     Nothing  was  said  in the  car  as  I  listened to the roar  of  R.A.F
transport  jets  taking  off  and  watched  soldiers  from  the  Argyll  and
Sutherland  Highlanders wander past in  DPM camouflage,  berg ens  on  their
backs and Walkmans clamped to their ears. It was  like going back in time. I
felt I'd spent half  my military life at this airfield,  because  as well as
loading up for flights on a regular basis, just like the Highlanders,  I had
learnt to parachute here. I'd loved it:
     after being  stationed in a  garrison town with only  three pubs one of
which was out of bounds to low-life  like me and a chip shop, this place had
been Butlins. They even had a bowling alley.
     I watched as a captain herded the trogs through the doors, ticking them
off on a clipboard as they passed into the large 1960s glass building.
     Trainers  came  back with  a nervous-looking Crab Air (R.A.F) movements
corporal. He probably didn't have a clue what was going on, just that he had
to escort  some pissed-off looking civilian on  to one of his nice aircraft.
He was  told to wait  short of the car as  Trainers came and opened the rear
kerb  side  door. I could only  see him  from the  chest  down as  his  hand
beckoned me out.
     As I shuffled my arse across the seat, Sundance called out, "Oil"
     I waited, looking at the foot well
     "Don't fuck up, boy."
     I nodded:  after  our  little  talk on the way here, and the  Yes Man's
lecture earlier, I'd got the message. I climbed out and nodded a greeting to
the Crab corporal.
     We'd only gone a few paces when Sundance called to me yet again. I went
back and poked my head through the rear door, which Trainers had kept  open.
The roar of a transport jet made him shout and me move back into the car, my
knees on the seat. 'I forgot to ask, how  is that  wain of yours? I hear you
two were going to the fruit farm before she left. Little soft in the head as
well, is she?"
     I couldn't hold it any longer: my body started to tremble.
     He grinned,  having got from me at last what  he'd been gunning for all
trip.
     "Maybe  if you fuck up  it'd be a good thing for the wee one you  know,
we'd be doing her a favour."
     He was  enjoying every moment of this. I tried to remain calm,  but  it
wasn't working. He could see me boiling underneath.
     "Hurts, eh?"
     I did my best not to react.
     "So, boy, just fuck off out of my face, and get it right this time."
     Fuck it.
     I  launched myself forward off my knees and gripped his head with  both
hands. In one  movement I put my head down and pulled  his face hard towards
the top of my crown. I made contact and it hurt, making me dizzy.
     Once outside I threw both my arms up in surrender.
     "It's OK, it's OK..."
     I opened my  eyes fully and looked in at Sundance. He was sunk into the
seat, hands covering his nose, blood  running between his fingers. I started
towards the  Crab,  feeling  a lot  better as  another  bunch of Highlanders
walked past, trying not to take too much notice of what was going on.
     Trainers looked as if  he was  trying to decide  whether to  drop me or
not. He still hadn't made up  his mind as I virtually pushed the  frightened
Crab into the building with me.
     Fuck 'em, what did I have to lose?
     NINE
     Tuesday  5 September I ease  the pistol into my waistband, my wet palms
sliding over the pistol grip.
     If  she's here I  don't want her  to see the weapon. Maybe she  already
knows what's  happened ... I put my mouth against  a little gap  between the
boxes.
     "Kelly, you there?  It's me, Nick. Don't be scared,  I'm going to crawl
towards you. You'll  see my head in  a minute and I want to see a  big smile
..."
     I  move boxes and  squeeze through  the  gap, inching towards the  back
wall.
     "I'm going to put my head around the corner now, Kelly."
     I  take  a deep breath and  move my head around  the  back  of the box,
smiling away but ready for the worst as sweat pours down my face.
     She is there, facing me, eyes wide with terror, sitting, curled up in a
foetal position, rocking her body backwards and forwards, holding  her hands
over her ears, looking so vulnerable and helpless.
     "Hello."
     She  recognizes  me,  but just carries on rocking, staring at  me  with
wide, wet, scared eyes.
     "Mummy and Daddy can't come and get you just now, but you can come with
me.
     Daddy told me it would be OK. Are you going to come with me, Kelly? Are
you?"
     "Sir, sir?" I opened my eyes to see a very concerned flight attendant.
     "You
     OK, sir? Can I get you some water or something?"
     My sweaty palms slid on the  armrests as I pushed myself upright  in my
seat. She poured from a litre bottle into a plastic glass.
     "Could I take the bottle, please?"
     It was handed to  me with an anxious smile and I thanked her, taking it
in a shaking, wet  hand before getting it rapidly down  my neck. I wiped  my
sweaty face with my spare hand. It had been part of the same  bad  dream I'd
had  on  the  Tristar.  Shit,  I must  be  really  knackered.  I peeled  the
sweatshirt from my skin and sorted myself out.
     We had just hit  cruising  altitude on  the  four-and-a-bit-hour flight
from Miami to  Panama  City,  scheduled to land at about 11.40  a.m.  local,
which was the same time zone  as the US east coast and five hours behind the
UK. My window seat was next to Central America's most  antisocial citizen, a
mid-thirties Latino woman with big hair and lots of stiff lacquer to keep it
that way. I doubted her skull could even  touch the headrest, the stuff  was
on so  thick. She was dressed  in PVC,  leather-look, spray-on jeans  and  a
denim-style jacket patterned with black and silver tiger stripes, and stared
at me in disgust, sucking her teeth, as I sorted myself out and  downed  the
last of the water.
     It was  her turn to get her head down now  as  I read the tourist-guide
pages in the  inflight magazine. I always found them invaluable for  getting
an idea of wherever I was going on fast-balls like this.  Besides, it got me
away from the other stuff  in my  head, and into thinking about the job, the
mission, what I was here for. I'd tried to buy a proper guide book to Panama
in Miami  airport, but  it seemed  there wasn't much  call for that  sort of
thing.
     The magazine  showed  wonderful pictures of  exotic  birds and  smiling
Indian  children in canoes, and  stuff I already knew but wouldn't have been
able to put so eloquently.
     "Panama  is the most southern of the Central American countries, making
the  long, narrow country  the  umbilical cord  joining  South  and  Central
America. It is in the shape  of an S bordered on  the west by Costa Rica, on
the east by Colombia, and has roughly the same land mass as Ireland."
     It went on to say  that  most people, and that included myself until my
days  in  Colombia, thought  that  Panama's  land  boundaries were north and
south.  That was wrong: the country runs west to  east. Facts like that were
important to me if I had to leave in a hurry. I wouldn't want to find myself
heading  for Colombia by mistake;  out of the frying pan  and into the fire.
The  only  way  to go was  west, to  Costa Rica, the  land of  cheap plastic
surgery and diving holidays. I knew that, because I'd read it in the waiting
room of the Moorings.
     Tiger Lil had  fallen asleep and  was snoring big-time, twisting in her
seat,  and farting every minute or so. I unscrewed both the air-conditioning
tubes above us and aimed them in her direction to try to divert the smell.
     The three pages of bumf and pictures went on to tell me that Panama was
best  known internationally for  its canal,  joining  the Caribbean  and the
Pacific,  and its 'vibrant banking services'. Then just  a few more pictures
of colourful flowers, with captions  reminding us what  a wonderful place it
was  and how lucky we all were to  be flying  there today. Not surprisingly,
they didn't  say anything about Operation Just Cause the US invasion in  '89
to oust  General  Noriega,  or the drug trafficking that  makes  the banking
system so vibrant.
     All  the wonderful  places  listed  to visit were exclusively  west  of
Panama City, which was called in here 'the  interior'. There was no  mention
at all  about what lay to  the east, especially the Darien Gap,  the  jungle
area bordering Colombia. I knew that Darien Province is like a low-intensity
war zone. Narco traffickers and  guerrillas usually  one and the same  thing
move in big groups between  the two countries, armed to the teeth. There are
even a few DMPs as the locals try to cash in on the industry, and Panamanian
border  police  buzz around  the  sky in  helicopter gunships,  locked in  a
conflict they will never win.
     Some adventurous types travel down there to bird-watch or hunt for rare
orchids,  and  become  hostages or dead after stumbling  across  things  the
traffickers would have preferred they hadn't.
     I  also knew that the narcos,  especially PARC, had been  getting  more
adventurous now that  the  US had stood  down from  Panama. They were making
incursions  further  west into  the country, and  with  only about 150 miles
between the  Colombian border and  Panama City, I  bet everyone was flapping
big-time.
     After flicking though the  rest of the mag and  not finding anything of
interest, just glossy ads, I used it to fan my face as Tiger Lil farted  and
grunted once more.
     Looking down at the endless blue of the Caribbean sea, I thought  about
yesterday's call to Josh. He'd been right to fuck me off;  it was  maybe the
eighth or ninth time I'd done it to him. Kelly did need stability and  an as
normal-as-possible  upbringing. That was  precisely  why  she was there with
him,   and  the  not-calling-when-I-should,  calling-when-I-shouldn't  thing
wasn't helping her at all.
     I should  have been there today to sign  over my guardianship of  Kelly
completely  to  him,   to   change   the  present   arrangement   of   joint
responsibility. In  her  father's will,  Josh  and I had both  been named as
guardians,  but  I was the  one  who'd landed up with  her. I  couldn't even
remember how that had come about, it just sort of had.
     Food was being served and I  tried to extract my tray from the armrest.
It was proving difficult as Tiger  Lil had overflowed her own space. I shook
her  gently and she opened one blurry eye before turning over as if I was to
blame.
     My food  turned up in its  prepacked  tray and made me think of  Peter,
getting all the doss-house boys rapping, "Krishna, yo! Krishna, yo! Krishna,
yo! Hari rama."
     I peeled back the foil to see a breakfast of pasta. Wielding a fork and
moving my arms very carefully so as not to stir up my new friend, I  decided
to make  a donation  to  those Krishna boys  if  ever I got  back alive. The
thought about Peter surprised me; it had popped up out of nowhere like a lot
of other stuff lately. I wanted to get  back in the comfort  zone of work as
quickly  as possible,  and  cut away from  that  stuff before I found myself
joining the Caravan Club.
     As I threw pasta down  my neck, I  got  thinking about  the job and the
little information Sundance had given me.  The pass number for the meet with
Aaron and Carrie Yanklewitz was thirteen. The system is easy and works well.
Numbers are far better than confirmation  statements because  they're easier
to remember.  I once had a  confirmation statement that went,  The  count is
having kippers with  your mother tonight and I was supposed to  reply,  "The
kippers are restless." Who the fuck made that one up?
     Pass numbers are  also especially good for people who aren't trained in
tradecraft or, like me, are crap at remembering confirmation statements. For
all I knew  these  people  could be  either.  I didn't  know  if  they  were
experienced operators who knew how to conduct themselves on the ground, just
contacts who were going to help me out with bed and breakfast, or big-timers
who couldn't keep their mouths shut.
     I didn't like  anyone else being involved in  anything I did,  but this
time I had no  choice. I didn't know where the  target lived or the target's
routine, and I didn't have a whole lot of time to find out.
     After eating I sat back and pushed myself against  the seat to relax my
sore  stomach  muscles. Pain  shot  across  my  ribcage  to give me  further
reminders of the strength and endurance of Caterpillar boots.
     Trying to relieve the pain in my chest as  I moved, I faced slowly away
from Tiger  Lil  and lowered the  window  blind. Below me  green jungle  now
stretched as far as the horizon, looking from this altitude like the world's
biggest broccoli patch.
     I pulled the blanket over my head to cut out the smell.
     TEN
     The flight touched down ten minutes early, at eleven thirty local time.
One of the first off, I followed the signs  for baggage reclaim and Customs,
past banks of chrome and brown leatherette seating.
     After  three hours of air-conditioning, the heat hit me like a wall. In
my hand were the two forms we'd been given  to fill in on the aircraft,  one
for Immigration, one for Customs. Mine said  that  Nick Hoff was  staying at
the Marriott there is always a Marriott.
     Apart from the clothes I  stood  up  in  jeans,  sweatshirt  and bomber
jacket the only items I  had with me were my passport and  wallet containing
five  hundred US  dollars. It  had  come from an  ATM  in Miami  departures,
courtesy of my new Royal Bank of Scotland Visa card in my crap cover name.
     Feeling like one  of the Camden  lot, I'd looked at myself in  a toilet
mirror:
     sleep  creases all over  my face and hair  sticking  up like  the  lead
singer in an in die band.
     I needn't have worried. Passing through Immigration turned out to be  a
breeze, even without any luggage. I just handed over my  declaration form to
a bored, middle-aged man and he waved me through: I guessed they'd hardly be
on the lookout for anyone trying to smuggle drugs into Central America.
     I also shot through Customs, because  all I had was  nothing.  I should
really have bought a piece  of hand luggage in Miami  to look normal, but my
head must have been elsewhere. Not that it mattered; the Panamanian  Customs
boys were obviously in the same place.
     I headed towards the exit, fitting my new Leatherman on to my belt. I'd
bought it  in Miami to replace  the  one  Sundance  had nicked from  me, and
airport security had taken  it off me and packed it into a Jiffy-bag in case
I tried to  use  it to hijack the plane.  I'd had  to  collect it  from  the
luggage service desk when we landed.
     The  small arrivals  area  was  hosting the  noise-and-crush  Olympics.
Spanish  voices hollered,  Tannoys  barked,  babies cried, mobiles rang with
every tune known to man. Steel barriers funnelled me deeper into the hall. I
walked  on, scanning the faces of waiting families and  taxi  drivers,  some
holding up  name  cards.  Women outnumbered men,  either very skinny or very
overweight but not much in between.
     Many held bunches of flowers, and screaming two-year-olds mountaineered
all  over  them. Three  or four deep against the barriers, they  looked like
fans at a Ricky Martin concert.
     At last, amongst the surge of people, I spotted a  square foot of white
card with  the name Tanklewitz' in capitals in marker  pen.  The long-haired
man holding  it looked  different  from  the clean-cut CIA operator I'd been
expecting. He was slim, about my height, maybe five ten, and probably in his
mid- to late fifties.
     He  was dressed in khaki shorts and a matching photographer's waistcoat
that  looked  as if  it doubled  as a  han drag  at the  local  garage.  His
salt-and-pepper hair was tied back in a  ponytail,  away from a  tanned face
that had a few days' silver growth. His face looked worn: life had obviously
been chewing on it.
     I walked straight past  him to the end of the barrier,  wanting to tune
in to the place first, and watch this  man for a while before  I gave myself
over to  him. I carried on  towards the  glass wall and  sliding  exit doors
about ten metres ahead.
     Beyond them was a car park, where blinding sunlight  bounced off scores
of windscreens. The Flying  Dogs hot dog and nacho stall to the left of  the
doors seemed  as good a  place as any to stop; I leant against the glass and
watched my contact getting pushed and shoved in the melee.
     Aaron1 presumed  it was him  was trying to check every new male arrival
who  emerged  from Customs, whilst also checking every few seconds  that the
name card  was the right  way up before trying to thrust it above  the crowd
once more. The  taxi drivers were old hands at this  game  and  were able to
stand their ground, but Aaron kept being buffeted by the surge of bodies. If
this had been the January sales, he'd  have  come  away  with  a pair of odd
socks.
     Now and again  I  caught sight of his  tanned, hairless legs. They were
muscular  and scratched around  the calves, and the soles  of his  feet were
covered by old  leather  Jesus sandals, not the more usual sports ones. This
wasn't holiday attire, that was for sure. He looked more  like a farmhand or
hippie throwback than any kind of doctor.
     As I watched  and tuned in, Tiger Lil burst into the  hall, heaving  an
enormous squeaky-wheeled  suitcase  behind her. She screamed in unison  with
two  equally large black  women as they jumped all over each  other, kissing
and cuddling.
     The arrivals area was packed with food and drink  stalls, all producing
their own smells that bounced  off the low ceiling and had nowhere to escape
to. Brightly  dressed Latinos, blacks, whites and  Chinese all clamoured  to
outdo each other  in the loudest shout competition. My guess was that  Aaron
would lose  that as well as the keep-your-place-in-the-crowd contest. He was
still bobbing around like a cork on a stormy sea.
     The air-conditioning  might  have been working, but not well  enough to
handle  the  heat  of  so  many  bodies.  The  stone  floor  was   wet  with
condensation,  as if it had just been mopped, and  the  bottom foot or so of
the glass wall was fogged with moisture. The heat was already getting to me.
I felt sweat leak from my greasy skin and my  eyes were stinging. Taking off
my jacket, I leant against the glass once more, my clammy arm sticking to my
sweatshirt.
     A group of five stony-faced policemen hovered about in severely pressed
khaki trousers and badge-festooned,  short-sleeved shirts. They  looked very
macho with their hands resting  on their holstered pistols  and feet tapping
in black patent leather shoes.  Apart from that, the only things moving were
their  peaked hats as they checked out  three tight-jeaned  and  high heeled
Latino women passing by
     Sitting on a  bench to  the left of the  policemen was the only  person
here who wasn't sweating and out of control. A thirty something white woman,
she looked like GI Jane, with short  hair, green fatigue  cargos and a baggy
grey vest  that came high up her neck.  She  still had her sunglasses on and
her hands were wrapped around a can of Pepsi.
     Two things struck  me  as I looked around the  hall. The first was that
virtually everybody seemed to have a  mobile on their belt or in their hand.
The  other  was  the  men's  shirts.  Like  the  police uniforms,  they were
dramatically pressed and  the arm crease went all the  way over the shoulder
and up to the collar. Maybe there was only one laundry in town.
     After about  a quarter of an hour the crowd was thinning as the last of
the  loved  ones trickled through  and  the taxi fares got  picked  up. Calm
descended, but probably only until the next flight arrived.
     Aaron was now  in my direct line of  sight, standing with the remaining
few still waiting at the barrier.  Under his dirty waistcoat he  had a faded
blue T-shirt with some barely readable Spanish on the front. I watched as he
held up his card  to the last few passengers, even leaning over the barrier,
straining to read the flight numbers on their luggage tags.
     It  was now time to cut  away from everything else going  on in my head
except work, the mission. I hated  that word, it sounded far too Army, but I
was going to use it to keep my head where it should be.
     I  had one  last  check around  the  hall  for  anything  unusual, then
realized that  everything  I saw fell into that category: the whole arrivals
area looked like a dodgy-characters convention. I started my approach.
     I must have been about three steps away from his  back as he thrust his
card  under the nose of an American business suit pulling his  bag on wheels
behind him.
     "Mr. Yanklewitz?"
     He spun  round, holding the  card against his chest like a schoolboy in
show-and tell  He had bloodshot but very blue eyes,  sunk  into deep  crow's
feet.
     I was supposed  to  let him  initiate conversation  with  a story  that
involved a number,  something like, "Oh, I hear you have ten bags with you?"
to which I would say,  "No, I have three', that sort  of thing. But I really
couldn't be bothered: I was hot, tired, and I wanted to get on.
     "Seven."
     "Oh, that  would make  me  six  then,  I  guess."  He sounded  a little
disappointed. He'd probably  been  working on his  story  all morning. |l  I
smiled. There was an  expectant pause: I was waiting for him to tell me what
to do next.
     "Er, OK, shall we go, then?" His accent was soft, educated American.
     "Unless of course you want to-' I don't want to do anything, apart from
go with you."
     "OK. Please, this way."
     We started towards the exit and I fell into step on his left. He folded
the card as he went, moving  faster than  I'd have  liked.  I didn't want us
looking unnatural but, then, what was I worrying about in this madhouse?
     On the other side of the automatic exit  doors was the service road for
drop-offs  and pick-ups. Beyond that was the car park, and in the  distance,
under a brilliant blue sky, were lush green rugged  mountains. Out there was
virgin ground to me, and unless  I had no choice, I never liked entering the
unknown with out having a look first.
     "Where are we going?"
     I  was still checking out the car park. I didn't know if he was looking
at me or not as he answered, in a very low voice, "That kinda depends on, er
... my wife is-' That's Carrie, right?"
     'Yes, Carrie."
     I'd forgotten to introduce myself.
     "Do you know my name?"
     Out  of  the  corner of my eye,  I saw his  head turn towards me, so  I
turned as well. His blue eyes seemed jumpy, and focused slightly to one side
of mine.
     "No, but if  you don't want to tell me, that's fine.  Whatever you feel
safe with, whatever is best for you."
     He didn't look scared, but  was definitely ill-at-ease. Maybe  he could
smell the fuck-up value on me.
     I stopped and held out my hand.
     "Nick." Better to be friendly  to the help  rather than  alienate them:
you get better  results that way. It  was a  small lesson the  Yes Man could
have done with taking on board.
     There was an embarrassed smile from  him, displaying a not-too-good set
of teeth, discoloured by too much coffee or tobacco. He held out his hand.
     "Aaron. Pleased to meet you, Nick."
     It was a very large hand  with hard skin, but the handshake was gentle.
Small scars covered  its surface; he was no pen-pusher. His nails were dirty
and jagged, and there was a dull gold wedding band and a multicoloured kids'
Swatch on his left.
     "Well, Aaron, as  you can see,  I haven't  packed for a long stay. I'll
just get  my job done and be out of the way by Friday. I'll  try not to be a
pain in the arse while I'm here. How does that sound?"
     His embarrassed grin gave me the feeling that  it sounded good  on both
counts.
     Still, he was generous in his reply.
     "Hey, no problem.  You did kinda throw me, you know. I wasn't expecting
an English guy."
     I smiled and leant forward to tell him a secret.
     "Actually I'm American, it's a disguise."
     There was a pause as he searched my eyes.
     "Joke, right?"
     I nodded, hoping it would break the ice a bit.
     "I was expecting to see Carrie as well."
     He pointed behind me.
     "She's right here."
     I turned to see GI Jane approaching us. She greeted me with a smile and
an out thrust hand.
     "Hi, I'm Carrie."
     Her hair was dark, cut into the nape of her neck. She was maybe mid- to
late  thirties  just a few years younger than me.  There  were  a few  lines
coming from behind the lenses of her dark glasses, and small  creases in the
side of her mouth as she spoke.
     I shook her firm hand.
     "I'm Nick. Finished your Pepsi, then?"  I didn't know  if she'd seen me
waiting, not that it really mattered.
     "Sure,  it  was  good." Her manner  was brisk, sort of  aggressive, and
wouldn't have been out of place on Wall Street. Like Aaron's,  her voice was
educated  but then, anyone who  pronounced their aitches sounded educated to
me.
     She stood by Aaron and  they certainly made an unusual  pair. Maybe I'd
got this wrong.  Maybe they were father  and  daughter. He had a  slight pot
belly  and showed his age; she had  a body that was  well toned  and  looked
after.
     People poured  in  and  out. The sound of  aircraft and a  gust of heat
enveloped us each time the doors slid open.
     Carrie shrugged.
     "What happens now?"
     They were waiting for instructions.
     "You haven't done this before, have you?"
     Aaron shook his head.
     "First  time. All we know  is  that we pick you up and  you tell us the
rest."
     "OK do you have any imagery yet?"
     She nodded.
     "It's  satellite,  I  pulled  it  off the  web last night.  It's at the
house."
     "How far away is that?"
     "If the rain holds off, four hours maybe.  If not, anything over  five.
We're talking boondocks."
     "How far to the other guy's house?"
     "An  hour  thirty from here, maybe two. It's the other side of the city
it's in the boonies, too."
     I'd like to see his  place first, then back to yours. Will I be able to
get close enough to have a good look?"
     There wasn't  enough time to spend maybe ten hours on the road, or even
prepare myself for a day under the canopy. I'd have to get on and do the CTR
of  the house first, since it was  so close, and  then, on the  way  back to
their place, get planning what I was going to do next, and how.
     She nodded, confirming with Aaron at the same time.
     "Sure, but like I said, it's in the forest." She turned to Aaron.
     "You know what?  I'll go pick up Luce from the dentist and meet you two
at home."
     There was a pause as if there was more to say, as if she expected me to
pick  up on what she'd said. But I didn't  care that much  who  Luce was. It
wasn't important at the moment, and I was sure to be told soon anyway.
     "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 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 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."
     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