soaking. The two of us were turning into the sweat-hog brothers. I heard the roar of a bulldozer, and saw rusty metal grilles covering every conceivable entry point into the ramshackle buildings. Washing hung from the windows and balconies, kids shouted at each other across the street. The road became so narrow that vehicles were forced right up to the kerb, their wing mirrors occasionally scraping pedestrians. Nobody seemed to care; the crowds were too busy gossiping and snacking on fried bananas or drinking beer. It wasn't long before the traffic flow congealed and every driver immediately leant on his horn. I could smell strong, flowery perfume as women pushed past, and wafts of frying food from an open doorway. The whole place walls, doors, even adverts was a riot of red and yellow. We nudged our way forward a bit, then stopped by two old women flicking their hips to blaring Caribbean music. Beyond them was a dimly lit shop, selling gas cookers, washing machines, canned food, aluminium pots and pans, from which a Latin samba spilled on to the street. I liked it: mini Manhattan did nothing for me; this was more my kind of town. We passed through a street market and the traffic started to move a little more smoothly. This is El Chorrillo. Do you remember Just Cause you know, the invasion?" I nodded. "Well, this was ground zero when they we attacked the city. Noriega had his command centre here. It's an open space now. Bombed flat." "Oh, right." I looked out at a row of old women sitting behind flat card tables, with what looked like lottery tickets laid out neatly on display. A muscle-bound bodybuilder, a black guy in a very tight Golds Gym vest and jeans, was buying some tickets from one of the tables, looking an absolute nugget with a City gent-style umbrella in his hand to keep the sun off. We eventually squeezed out of the market area, hit a T-junction and stopped. The road in front of us was a busy main drag. From the little I'd seen, the law here seemed to be that if you were bigger than the vehicle you were heading towards, you didn't have to stop: you just hit the horn and put your foot down. The Mazda wasn't exactly the biggest toy in the shop, but Aaron didn't seem to realize it was still big enough to get out there. To my right was a wooden drink shack. Pepsi had won the cola wars hands down in Panama: every other hoarding was covered with their ads, alongside stubble chinned cowboys welcoming us to Marlboro Country. Next to the shack, in the shade of a tree and leaning against the tailgate of a highly polished Ford Explorer, with sparkling chrome wheels and a Madonna hanging off the rear-view mirror, were five Latino guys, young men in their twenties. Shoehorned into the rear of the Explorer was a massive pair of loudspeakers, banging out Latin rap. All the guys looked sharp, with their shaved heads and wraparound mirror shades. They wouldn't have looked out of place in LA. There was enough gold hanging round their necks and wrists to keep the old woman begging at the other side of the road in three-course dinners for the rest of her life. Lying all around them on the ground were mounds of cigarette ends and Pepsi bottle tops. One of the boys caught a glimpse of my Jackie O specials. Aaron was still rocking the wagon back and forth at the junction. The sun beat down on the static cab and turned up the oven temperature. A tailback of vehicles had developed behind us waiting to get out of the main. Horns were hit, and we were starting to attract some attention. By now the news had spread about my fashion accessory. The Latino guys were getting to their feet to have a better look. One of them leant against the tailgate again and I could clearly see the shape of a pistol grip under his shirt. Aaron was still tensed over the wheel. He saw it too, and got even more flustered, cocking up getting out of the junction to the point where there were now more cars hooting on the main for us to get back in than behind us telling us to get the fuck out. no The boys were laughing big-time at my eye wear and obviously making some very funny Spanish jokes as they high-fived and pointed. Aaron was staring straight ahead. Sweat poured down his head and beard, gathering under his chin and dripping. The steering-wheel was slippery with it. He didn't like one bit what was happening with these guys only about five metres away. I was sweating too. The sun was toasting the right side of my face. All of a sudden we were in a scene from Baywatch. Two uniformed men with hip holstered pistols had arrived on mountain bikes, clad in dark shorts and black trainers, with Tolicia' printed across the back of their beige polo shirts. Dismounting, they parked their bikes against a tree and calmly started sorting out the chaos. With their bike helmets and sunglasses still in place, they blew whistles hard and pointed at traffic. Miraculously, they managed to open up a space on the main drag, then pointed and whistled at Aaron, waving him on. As we drew away from the junction and turned left, the air was thick with angry shouts, mainly at the policemen. "Sorry about that. Crazoids like those shoot at the drop of a hat. It creeps me out." Very soon we were out of the slums and moved into upscale residential. One house we passed was still under construction and the drills were going for it bigtime. Men were digging, pipes were being laid. All the power was coming from a generator that belonged to the US Army. I knew that because the camouflage pattern and the "US Army' stencilling told me so. Aaron obviously felt a lot better now. "See that?" He pointed at the generator. "What would you say? Four thousand dollars?" I nodded, not really having a clue. "Well," there was undisguised outrage in his voice, 'those guys probably laid out less than five hundred." "Oh, interesting." Was it fuck. But I was obviously going to get more. "When SOUTH COM couldn't clear out all the five remaining bases by the December deadline, they decided to abandon or simply give away any items valued at less than a thousand dollars. So what happened, to make life easier, nearly everything ill was valued at nine hundred and ninety-nine bucks. Technically it was supposed to have been given away to good causes, but everything was just marked up and sold on, vehicles, furniture, you name it." As I looked around I realized it wasn't just that that had been offloaded. I spotted another gang of street cleaners in yellow T-shirts. They were digging up anything green that stuck out of the pavement and everybody seemed to be wearing brand new US Army desert-camouflage fatigues. He started to sound like the village gossip. "I heard a story that a two hundred-and-thirty-thousand-dollar Xerox machine got the nine ninety-nine tag because the paperwork to ship it back up north was just too much hassle." I was looking around at a quiet residential area, nice bungalows with rubber plants outside, estate cars and lots of big fences and grilles. He pointed out nothing in particular as he continued. "Out there somewhere, there are guys repairing their vehicles with fifteen-thousand-dollar jet aircraft torque sets that cost them sixty bucks." He sighed. 'I wish I could have laid my hands on some of that stuff. We just got odds and ends." The houses were being replaced by parades of shops and neon signs for Blockbuster and Burger King. Rising into the sky about a couple of Ks ahead, and looking like three towering metal Hs, were the stacks of container cranes. "Balboa docks," he said. They're at the entrance to the canal. We'll be in the Zone," he corrected himself, 'the old Canal Zone, real soon." That was pretty evident just by looking at the road signs. There didn't seem to be many in this country, but I saw the odd US military one now, hanging precariously from its post, telling us that USAF Albrook wasn't far away. A large blue and white faded metal sign on the main drag gave us directions for the Servicemen's Christian Association, and soon afterwards we hit a good quality grey concrete road that bent right round an airfield full of light aircraft and private and commercial helicopters. As we followed the airfield's perimeter road, Balboa docks were behind us and to our left. "That used to be Air Force Albrook. It's where PARC stole those choppers I told you about." We passed a series of boarded-up barrack blocks, four floors high, with air-conditioners poking out of virtually every window. Their immaculately clean cream walls and red-tiled roofs made them look very American, very military. Skyscraping fifty-metre steel flagpoles that no doubt used to fly enormous Stars and Stripes were now flying the Panamanian flag. Aaron sighed. "You know the saddest thing about it?" I was looking at part of the air base that seemed to have become the bus terminal. A big sign saying "United States Air Force Albrook' was half pasted over with details of the bus routes, and lines of buses were being cleaned and swept out. "What's that?" "Because of this nine ninety-nine giveaway, the Air Force was in such dire need of forklifts they actually had to start renting some of their old ones back to get the final equipment loaded to the States." As soon as we cleared the air base the road was flanked again on either side by pampas grass at least three metres high. We hit another row of toll booths, paid our few cents and moved through. "Welcome to the Zone. This road parallels the canal, which is about a quarter of a mile that way." He pointed over to our left and it was as if we'd just driven into a South Florida subdivision, with American-style bungalows and houses, rows of telephone booths, traffic lights and road signs in English. Even the street lighting was different. A golf course further up the road was advertised in English and Spanish. Aaron pointed. "Used to be the officers' club." A deserted high school on the right looked like something straight out of an American TV show. Beside it squatted a massive white dome for all-weather sports. We were most definitely where the other half lived. "How long till we get to the house?" Aaron was looking from side to side of the virtually deserted road, taking in the detail of the Zone close down "Maybe another forty, fifty minutes. It was kinda busy downtown." It was time to talk shop now. "Do you have any idea why I'm here, Aaron?" Not much, I hoped. He shrugged evasively and used his gentle voice that was hard to hear above the wind. "We only got told last night you were coming. We're to help you in any way we can and show you where Charlie lives." "Charlie?" "Charlie Chan you know, the guy from that old black and white movie. That's not his real name, of course, just what people call him here. Not to his face, God forbid. His real name is Oscar Choi." "I like Charlie Chan a lot better," I said. "Suits him." Aaron nodded. "For sure, he doesn't look an Oscar to me neither." What do you know about him?" "He's really well known here. He's a very generous guy, plays the all-round good citizen thing patron of the arts, that kind of stuff. In fact, he funds the degree course I get to lecture on." This wasn't sounding much like a teenager. "How old is he?" "Maybe a bit younger than me. Say early fifties." I started to get a little worried. "Does he have a family?" "Oh, yeah, he's a big family man. Four sons and a daughter, I think." "How old are the kids?" "I don't know about the older ones, but I know the youngest son has just started university. Chose a good course environmental stuff is cool right now. I think the others work for him downtown." My head was thumping big-time. I was finding it hard to concentrate. I got my fingers under the glasses and tried to get my eyes working. Aaron obviously had views on the Chinaman. "It's strange that men like him spend all their lives slashing, burning, pillaging to get what they want. Then, once they've amassed all their wealth, they try to preserve everything they used to try to destroy, but underneath never change. Very Viking, don't you think, Nick?" What is he, a politician?" "Nope, doesn't need to be, he owns most of them. His family has been here since the labourers started digging the canal in 1904, selling opium to keep the workers happy. He has his fingers in every pie, in every province and in everything from construction to "import and export"." Aaron gave the quote sign with his right forefinger. "You know, keeping up the family tradition -cocaine, heroin, even supplying arms to PARC or anyone else down south who has the money. He's one of the very few who are happy about the US stand-down. Business is so much easier to conduct now we've gone." He lifted his left hand from the steering-wheel and rubbed his forefinger and thumb together. This has many friends, and he has plenty of it." Drugs, guns, and legal business, it made sense: they usually go hand in hand. "He's what my mother would have called "someone's wicked son" he's smart, real smart. It's a well-known story round here that he crucified sixteen men in Colombia. They were local-government people, policemen, that kind of thing, trying to cut him out of a deal he'd made with them for moving coke. He had them nailed up in the town square for everyone to see and let them die someone's wicked son for sure." A chain-link fence line started to appear on the right. This is," he corrected himself once more, 'was Fort Clayton." The place was deserted. Through the fence was a line of impressive military buildings. The white flagpoles were empty, but still standing guard in front of them were perfect rows of tall, slim palm trees, the first four feet or so in need of another coat of whitewash. As we drove further on, I could see the same accommodation blocks that were at Albrook, all positioned in a neat line with concrete paths crisscrossing the uncut grass. Road signs were still visible telling troops not to drink and drive, and to remember they were ambassadors for their country. We lapsed into silence for a few minutes, surveying the emptiness. "Nick, do you mind if we stop for a Coke? I'm feeling pretty dry." "How long is it going to take? How far until we get to Charlie's place?" Maybe another six, seven miles after the Coke stop. It's only a few minutes off the route." Sounded good to me: I was going to be having a long day. We passed the main gate of the camp and Aaron sighed. The bold brass letters that were secured to the entrance wall now just read "Layton'. "I think they're going to turn it into a technology park, something like that." "Oh, right." Who cared? Now he'd talked about it, all I wanted was a drink, and maybe an opportunity to find out more from him about the target house. TWELVE We stayed on the main drag for maybe another half-mile before turning left on to a much narrower road. Ahead of us in the distance, on the high ground, I could just make out the superstructure and high load of a container ship, looking bizarre as it cut the green skyline. That's where we're heading, the Miraflores locks," Aaron said. "It's the only place round here to get a drink now everyone moving along this road comes here, it's like a desert watering-hole." As we started to reach the higher ground of the lock a scene unfolded that made me wonder if Clinton was about to visit. The place was packed with vehicles and people. A line of brightly coloured buses had brought an American-style marching band and eighteen-year-old baton twisters. Red tunics, white trousers and stupid hats with feathers sticking out were blowing into white enamelled trombones and all sorts as the baton girls, squeezed into red leotards and white knee-high boots, whirled their chrome sticks and streamers. It was a zoo up here: teams putting up bunting, unloading fold-up wooden chairs from trucks, lumbering around with scaffolding poles over their shoulders. "Uh-oh," Aaron sighed, "I thought it was going to be on Saturday." "What?" The Ocaso." We drove into the large wired compound, jam-packed with private vehicles and tour company MPVs, around which were dotted some smart and well-maintained colonial-style buildings. The sounds of brass instruments tuning up and fast, excited Spanish poured into the cab. "Not with you, mate. What's the Ocaso?" It's a cruise liner, one of the biggest. It means sunset in English. Two thousand passengers plus. It's been coming through here for years, runs out of San Diego to the Caribbean." While trying to find a parking space, he checked out some posters stuck up along a chain-link fence. "Yeah, it's this Saturday, the four hundredth and final transit. It's going to be a big deal. TV stations, politicians, some of the cast of The Bold and the Beautiful will be on board that show's a big deal here. This must be the dress rehearsal." Just a few metres past the buses and chain-link, I caught my first glimpse of the enormous concrete locks, flanked by immaculately cut grass. None of it looked as breathtaking as I'd been expecting, more a hugely scaled-up version about three hundred metres long and thirty wide of any normal-sized set of canal locks. Manoeuvring into the first lock was the rust-streaked blue and white ship, five storeys high and maybe two hundred metres long, powered by its own engines but being guided by six stubby-looking but obviously powerful aluminium electric locomotives on rails, three each side. Six cables slung between the hull and the lo cos four at the rear, the other two up front, helped guide it between the concrete walls without touching. Aaron sounded off with the tour-guide bit as he squeezed between two cars. "You're looking at maybe six thousand automobiles in there, heading for the west coast of the States. Four per cent of the world's trade and fourteen of the US's passes through here. It's an awesome amount of traffic." He gave a sweep of his hand to emphasize the scale of the waterway in front of us. "From the Bay of Panama here on the Pacific side up to the Caribbean, it only takes maybe eight to ten hours. Without the canal you could spend two weeks sailing round Cape Horn." I was nodding with what I hoped was the required amount of awe when I saw where we'd be getting our Coke. A truck-trailer had grown roots in the middle of the car park and become a cafe-cum-tourist-shop. White plastic garden chairs were scattered around matching tables shaded by multicoloured sun umbrellas. Hanging up for sale were enough souvenir T-shirts to clothe an army. We found a space and got out. It was sweltering, but at least I could peel my sweatshirt off my back. Aaron headed towards the side window to join the line of tourists and two red tunics, each with a lump of brass under their arm, as they leered at a group of athletic-looking baton girls paying for their drinks. 'I'll get us a couple of cold ones." I stood under one of the parasols and watched the ship inch into the lock. I took off my Jackie Os and cleaned them: the glare made me regret it immediately. The sun was merciless, but the lock workers seemed impervious to it, neatly dressed in overalls and hard hats as they went about their jobs. There was an air of brisk efficiency about the proceedings as a loudspeaker system sounded off quick, businesslike radio traffic in Spanish, just managing to make itself heard above the nightmare around the buses and the clatter of scaffolding poles. A four-tier grandstand was being erected on the grass facing the lock, supplementing the permanent one to the left of it, by the visitors' centre, which was also covered in bunting. Saturday was going to be very busy indeed. The ship was nearly into the lock, with just a couple of feet to spare each side. Tourists watched from the permanent viewing platform, clicking away with their Nikons, as the band drifted on to the grass. Some of the girls practised their splits, professional smiles, and top and bottom wiggles as they got into ranks. The only person at ground level who seemed not to be looking at the girls was a white man in a fluorescent pink, flowery Hawaiian shirt. He was leaning against a large, dark blue GMC Suburban, watching the ship as he smoked with deep, long drags. The guy was using his free hand to wave the bottom of his shirt to circulate some air. His stomach had been badly burned, leaving a large scar the size of a pizza that looked like melted plastic. Shit, that must have been painful. I was glad my stomach pain was just from a session with Sundance's Caterpillars. Apart from the windscreen, all the windows had been blackened out with film. I could see it was a DIY job by a snag mark in one of the rear door windows. It made a clear triangle where the plastic had been ripped down three or four inches. Then, as if he'd just realized he'd forgotten to lock his front door, he jumped into the wagon and drove out. Maybe the real reason was because he had a false plate on the CMC and he didn't want any of the police to scrutinize it. The wagon had been cleaned, but not well enough to match the even cleaner plate. I'd always hit the carwash immediately before changing plates, then took a drive in the country to mess both the plate and the body-work before using the vehicle for work. I bet there were a lot of people with false plates down here, keeping the banking sector vibrant. A fragile-looking Jacob's ladder of wooden slats and knotted rope was dropped over the side of the ship and two men in pristine white shirts and trousers climbed aboard from the grass below, just as Aaron came back with four cans of Minute Maid. "No Coke they've been overrun today." We sat in the shade and watched the hydraulic rams slowly push the gates shut, and the water twenty-seven million gallons of it, according to Aaron flooded into the lock. The ship rose into the sky before us as the scaffolders downed tools and took a seat in preparation for the girls' rehearsal. Quiet contemplation obviously wasn't Aaron's thing and he was soon waffling on. "You see, the canal isn't as most people think, just a big ditch cut through the country, like the Suez. No, no, no. It's a very complicated piece of engineering quite amazing to think it's more or less Victorian." I had no doubt it was completely fascinating, but I had other, more depressing, things on my mind. The Miraflores, and the other two sets further up, lift or drop these ships eighty feet. Once up there, they just sail on over the lake and then get lowered again to sea level the other side. It's kind of like a bridge over the isthmus. Pure genius the eighth wonder of the world." I pulled the ring on my second orange and nodded towards the lock. "Bit of a tight fit, isn't it?" That'd keep him waffling for a while. He responded as if he'd designed the thing himself. "No problem they're all built to Panamax specifications. Shipyards have been keeping the size of the locks in mind for decades now." The vessel continued to rise like a skyscraper in front of me. Just then, the trumpets, drums and whistles started up as the band broke into a quick-tempo samba and the girls did their stuff to the delight of the scaffolders. Ten minutes later, when the water levels were equal, the front gate was opened and the process began all over again. It was like a giant staircase. The batons were still getting thrown into the air and the band were marching up and down the grass. Everyone seemed to be getting very Latin as some of the brass section chanced a few dance moves of their own as they strutted their stuff. A black Lexus 4x4 with gold-mirrored side windows pulled up opposite the shop. The windows slid down to reveal two shirt-and-tied white-eyes. The front-seat passenger, a muscular, well-tanned twenty something got out and went straight to the trailer window, ignoring the queue. One of the new small, chrome-effect Nokias glinted from his belt along with a weapon holstered on his right hip. Just as with the CMC, however, I thought nothing of it after all, this was Central America. I just tilted my head back to get the last of the drink down my neck, thinking of getting another couple for the journey. A young American voice called out from the Lexus as the twenty something went back with the drinks. "Hey, Mr. Y! What's happening, man?" Aaron's head jerked round, his face breaking into a smile. He waved. "Hey, Michael, and how are you? How was your break?" I turned as well. My head was still back but I instantly recognized the grinning face leaning out of the rear passenger window. Finishing the drink, I brought my head down as Aaron moved over to the car. My tiredness disappeared as adrenaline pumped. This was not good, not good at all. I looked at the floor, pretending to relax, and tried to listen above the music. The boy held out a hand for Aaron to shake, but his eyes were on the girls. "I'm sorry, I can't get out of the car my father says I have to stay in with Robert and Ross. I heard they'd be here today, thought I'd get a look on the way home, know what I mean, Mr. Y? Didn't you check out the pompom girls? I mean, before you got married ..." I could see that the two BG (bodyguards) weren't remotely distracted by the girls or the infectious Latin tempo, they were doing their job. Their faces were impassive behind tinted sunglasses as they drank from their cans. The engine was running and I could see the moisture drip from the air-conditioning reservoir on to the tarmac. The band stopped playing and now marched to the command of a bass drum. Michael jabbered on with excitement, and something he said made Aaron arch an eyebrow. "England?" "Yes, I returned yesterday. There was a bomb and some terrorists were killed. My father and I were very close by, in the Houses of Parliament." Aaron showed his surprise as Michael pulled back the ring on his can. "Hey, Nick, did you hear that?" He pointed me out to the target with a cock of his head. "Nick he's British." Shit, shit, Aaron no! Michael's eyes turned to me and he smiled, displaying perfect white teeth. The BG also moved their heads casually to give me the once-over. This wasn't good. I smiled and studied the target. He had short black shining hair, side parted, and his eyes and nose looked slightly European. His smooth unblemished skin was darker than most Chinese. Maybe his mother was Panamanian, and he spent a lot of time in the sun. Aaron had realized he had fucked up and stammered, "He kind of hitched a lift from me in the city to take a look at the locks -you know, and check out the chicks ..." Michael nodded, not really that fussed. I turned back to the ship as it left the dock, wanting very much to walk right over and ram my can in Aaron's mouth. After a minute or so of university stuff Michael got a nod from the BG and started to wind down the conversation. As he held out his hand again for a farewell he glanced over one more time at the leotards and pompoms. A whistle sounded out commands and the drums sparked up once more. "I have to go now. Will I see you next week, Mr. Y?" "Sure thing." Aaron gave him a high five. "You get that project done?" "I think you'll like it. Anyway, catch you later." Out of politeness he nodded to me over Aaron's shoulder, then the window powered up and the Lexus moved off, leaving behind a poodle-size piss puddle from the air-conditioning. Aaron waved until they were out of sight, then spun towards me, his face abject as the brass section and girls joined in the fast drum rhythm. "Nick, I'm really sorry." He shook his head. "I just didn't think. I'm not really cut out for this kind of thing. That's Charlie's son did I tell you he's on the course I teach? I'm sorry, I just didn't think." "It's OK, mate. No damage done." I was lying. The last thing I needed was to be introduced to the target and, even worse, have the BG knowing what I looked like. There was also the connection with Aaron. My heart was pounding. All in all, not a good day out. Those guys with him Robert and Ross? They're the ones who hung up those Colombians. They're Charlie's special guys, I've heard stories about-' Aaron's expression suddenly changed. "Did you have something to do with that bomb in London? I mean, is this all about-' I shook my head as I swallowed the last of the juice. I could feel the blood rushing around my head. I'm sorry, it's not any of my business. I don't really want to know." I wasn't too sure if he'd believed me, but it didn't matter. "How far have we got left to Michael's house?" "Like I said, five, maybe six miles. If the picture back at our place is anything to go by, it's some kind of palace." I started to get my cash out as I walked towards the trailer window. "I think I'd better have a look at it, then, don't you? What about another drink while we wait for Michael to get home and settle down?" The expression on his face still said guilty. "Tell you what," I said, 'you buy and then we're even." At least that got a fleeting smile out of him as he delved into his grubby pockets for coins. "And see if they have anything for a headache, could you?" Over the other side of the car park was an ATM with the HSBC logo. I knew I wouldn't be able to withdraw any more money today, but within hours of me attempting to, the Yes Man would at least know I was in-country. We spent the next forty minutes killing time at the plastic table with just the sound of the lo cos humming along their tracks as the entertainment took a break for lunch. I had the Jackie Os back on, trying to rest my eyes and head. It seemed no one ever got a headache round here. Aaron took the opportunity to explain about the US stand-down the previous December. The fact that he could reel off all the dates and numbers so precisely emphasized his bitterness about what had happened. In total, more than four hundred thousand acres of Canal Zone and bases, worth more than $10 billion, had been handed over -along with the canal itself, which had been built and paid for by the US to the tune of a further $30 billion. And the only way they could come back was under the terms of the DeConcini Reservation, which allowed for military intervention if the canal was endangered. It was all interesting stuff, but what was more important to me was confirming that Michael would be at university this week. "For sure." Aaron nodded. "They'll all be headed back. The semester started for most folks last week." We headed for the house, driving into Clayton. Aaron explained that now the US had gone Charlie had got his hands on some of the Zone and built on it. The only security these days at the guard house was an old guy sleeping on the veranda of the guard room with half a jam-jar of something resembling black tea by his side, looking quite annoyed to be woken up to lift the barrier. Clayton might become a technology park one day, but not yet. We passed deserted barrack blocks with tall grass growing between them. The US Army's legacy was still very much in evidence. I could see stencilling on steel plates above every barrack door: Building 127, HQ Theater Support Brigade, Fort Clayton, Panama, US Army South. I wondered if our SOUTH COM bosses during my time in Colombia had sent us our satellite photography and orders from these very buildings. The neighbourhood looked as if it had been evacuated before a hurricane. The children's swings between the deserted bungalows and palm-fringed, two-floor apartment blocks were showing the first signs of rust through their blue paintwork, and the baseball ground, which needed a good mow, still had the results of the last game displayed on the scoreboard. US road signs told us to travel at 15 mph. because of children playing. We reached the other side of the massive fort complex and headed into the mountains. The jungle closed in on both sides of the narrow, winding tarmac road. I could only see about five metres; after that everything blurred into a wall of green. I'd heard about a patrol in Borneo in the Sixties who had a man down with a gunshot wound. It wasn't fatal, but he did need evacuation. Leaving him comfortable at the bottom of a high feature, all hands moved uphill to cut a winch point out of the jungle so the rescue helicopter could pull him out and cas-evac him to hospital. This was no big deal, and the wounded man would have been airborne by last light if only they hadn't made the fatal error of not leaving anyone with him or marking where he was lying. It took them over a week to find where they'd left him, even though it was less than a hundred metres away at the bottom of the hill. By then he was dead. The sun beat down on the windscreen, showing up all the bugs that had smashed against it and been smeared by the wipers. It couldn't have been easy for Aaron to see through. This was secondary jungle; movement through it would be very, very difficult. I much preferred primary, where the canopy is much higher and the sun finds it difficult to penetrate to ground level so there's less vegetation. It's still a pain in the arse to travel through, because there's still all kinds of stuff on the ground. Grey clouds were starting to cover the sky and make everything darker I thought again about all the months I'd spent living in jungles whilst on operations. You'd come out two stone lighter, and because of the lack of sunlight your skin becomes as white and clammy as an uncooked chip, but I really liked it. I always had a fantastic sense of anticipation when I entered jungle, because it's the most wonderful place to be; tactically, compared with any other terrain, it's a great environment to operate in. Everything you need is there: shelter, food and, more importantly, water. All you really have to get used to is the rain, bites by mozzies (anything small that flies), and 95 per cent humidity. Aaron leant forward and peered up through the windscreen. "Here they are, look right on time." The grey clouds had disappeared, pushed out by blacker ones. I knew what that meant and, sure enough, the sky suddenly emptied on us. It was like sitting under an upturned bath. We hurriedly wound up our windows, but only about three quarters of the way, because humidity was already misting up the inside of the windscreen. Aaron hit the de mister and its noise was drowned as the roof took a pounding. Lightning cracked and sizzled, splashing the jungle with brilliant blue light. An almighty clap of thunder boomed above us. It must have set off a few car alarms back at the locks. Aaron slowed the car to walking pace as the wipers went into hyper drive slapping each side of the windscreen and having no effect at all as rain stair rodded into the tarmac and bounced back into the air. Water splattered through the top of the side window, spraying my shoulder and face. I shouted at him, above the drumming on the roof. "Does this road go straight to Charlie's house?" Aaron was leaning over the wheel, busy wiping the inside of the windscreen. "No, no this is a loop, just access to an electricity sub-station. The new private road to the house leads off from it. I thought maybe I could drop you off where the two join, otherwise I'd have nowhere to go." That seemed perfectly reasonable to me. "How far to the house from the junction?" "If the scale on the imagery is right, maybe a mile, a mile and then some. All you've got to do is follow the road." The deluge continued as we crawled uphill. I leant down and felt under my seat, trying to find something to protect my documents. I wasn't going to leave them with Aaron: they were going everywhere with me, like communication codes, to be kept on the body at all times. Aaron looked at me. What do you need?" He was still strained forward against the wheel, as if that was going to help him see any better through the solid sheet of rain as we crawled along at about 10 mph. I explained. "You'll find something in the back, for sure. Won't be long now, maybe two or three miles." That was fine by me. I sat back and let myself be mesmerized by the rain bouncing around us. We followed the road as it curved to the right, then Aaron moved over to the edge of the road and stopped. He pointed just ahead of us. That's the road that goes to the house. Like I said, maybe a mile, a mile and a half. They say from up there Chan can see the sun rise over the Caribbean and set in the Pacific. What do you want me to do now?" "First, just stay here and let me get into the back." I got out and put my jacket back on. Visibility was down to maybe twenty metres. Rain hammered on the top of my head and shoulders. I went to the rear of the wagon and opened the tailgate. I was soaked to the skin before I got half-way. I was just pleased not to be in a country where being wet also meant freezing my bollocks off. I rummaged around in the back. Four five-gallon US Army jerry-cans were fixed with bun gees to the far end of the flatbed, adjacent to the cab. At least we wouldn't be running out of fuel. Scattered around them were more yellowing newspapers, a jack, a nylon tow-rope and all the associated crap that would be needed for a wreck like this. Amongst it, I found what I was looking for, two plastic carrier bags. One contained a pair of greasy old jump-leads, the other was empty, apart from a few bits of dried mud and vegetable leaves. I shook them both out, tucked my passport, air ticket and wallet into the first and wrapped them up. I put that into the second, gave it a twist, and placed it in an inside pocket of my jacket. I had another look round, but found nothing else that could be of any use to me on the recce. Slamming the tailgate, I went round to Aaron's door and put my face up against the gap in the window. "Can you give me that compass, mate?" I had to shout to be heard. He leant across, unstuck it from the windscreen, and passed it through. "Sorry, I didn't think about it. I should have brought a proper one, and a map." I couldn't be arsed to say it wasn't a problem. My head was banging big-time and I wanted to get on. Water cascaded down my face and off my nose and chin as I pressed the illumination button on Baby-G. "When's last light?" "Six thirty, or thereabouts." "It's just gone three thirty. Drive well away from here, all the way back to the city, whatever. Then come back to this exact spot at three a.m." He nodded without even thinking about it. "OK, park here, and wait ten minutes. Keep the passenger door unlocked and just sit in the car with the engine running." On a job, the engine must always be kept running: if you switch it off, sod's law dictates that it's not going to start up again. "You also need to think of a story in case you're stopped. Say you're looking for some rare plant or something." He stared vacantly through the windscreen. "Yes, that's a good idea. In fact the barrigon tree is common in disturbed areas and along roads and-' "That's good, mate, good, whatever works, but make sure the story's in your head by the time you pick me up, so it sounds convincing." "OK." He nodded sharply, still looking out of the window and thinking trees. "If I'm not here by ten past three, drive off. Then come back round again and do exactly the same every hour until it gets light, OK?" His eyes were still fixed on the windscreen as he nodded sharply. "OK." Then, at first light, I want you to bin it. Stop doing the circuit. Come back for me at midday, but not here wait at the locks, by the trailer. Wait for an hour, OK?" He nodded some more. "Got any questions?" He hadn't. I figured I'd given myself enough time, but if there was a cock-up and I didn't make this RV, all was not lost. I could get to a river, clean all the jungle shit off and, with luck, dry myself off if the sun was shining tomorrow morning. Then I wouldn't stand out too much once I got amongst the real people at the locks. "Now, worst-case scenario, Aaron and this is very, very important." I was still shouting above the noise of the rain. Rivulets of water ran down my face and into my mouth. If I don't appear at the locks by midday tomorrow, then you'd better call your handler and explain exactly what I wanted you to do, all right?" "Why's that?" "Because I'll probably be dead." There was a pause. He was obviously shaken: maybe he hadn't realized what game we were playing here; maybe he'd thought we really were here for the tree hugging. "Have you got that?" "Sure. I'll just tell them, word for word." He was still looking through the windscreen, frowning and nodding. I tapped on his window and he turned his head. "Hey, don't worry about it, mate. I'm just planning for the worst. I'll see you here at three." He smiled quite nervously. 'I'll tank up beforehand, yeah?" I tapped once more on the glass. "Good idea. See you later, mate." Aaron drove off. The engine noise was drowned by the rain. I walked off the road into the murky, twilight world of the jungle. At once I was pushing against palm leaves and bushes. Rainwater that had been trapped on them sluiced all over me. I moved in about five metres to get out of sight while I waited for Aaron to get well away from the area, and plonked down in the mud and leaf litter, resting my back against a tree-trunk as yet more thunder erupted across the sky. Water still found me as it cascaded from the canopy. Pushing back my soaked hair with my hands I brought up my knees and rested my forehead against them as the rain found its way from the back of my neck and dripped away over my chin. Underneath my jacket, my left arm was being chewed. I gave the material a good rub and attempted to squeeze to death whatever had got up there, quietly welcoming myself to Aaron's 'cathedral of nature'. I should have looked out for some mozzie repellent in the Miami departures lounge instead of a guidebook. My jeans were wet and heavy, hugging my legs as I stood up. I wasn't exactly dressed for crawling around in the jungle, but tough, I'd just have to get on with it. If I was going to hunt, I had to get my arse over to where the ducks were, so I headed back to the loop. For all I knew it might have stopped raining out there by now. Inside the canopy you'd never know because the water still falls for ages as it makes its way down leaf by leaf. I turned right on to the single-track metal road: it was pointless moving through the jungle from this distance. The downpour had eased a little, now only bouncing an inch or two off the tarmac, but it was still enough to mean that a vehicle wouldn't see me until it was right on top of me. As I started to walk up the road I checked the ball compass. I was heading uphill and west, as we had been all the way from Clayton in the Mazda. I kept to one side so I could make a quick entry into cover, and didn't move too fast so I'd be able to hear any approaching vehicles above the rasping of my soaked jeans. I still had no idea how I was going to do this job, but at least I was in an environment I understood. I wished Dr. Hughes could see me now: then she'd know there was something I was good at. I stopped and scratched the skin at the base of my spine to discourage whatever was munching at it, then moved on up the road. THIRTEEN For the best part of a mile of uphill slog I was deluged with rain and drenched in my own sweat, hair plastered to my face and clothes clinging to my body like long-lost friends. At last, the rain subsided, and the sun emerged between the gaps in the clouds, burning on to my face and making me squint as it reflected off the mirror of wet tarmac. The Jackie Os went back on. I looked at the compass I was heading west with a touch of north in it and also checked my plastic bags. They'd done their job well: at least I had dry documents. Humidity oozed from the jungle. Birds began to call once more from high up in the canopy. One in particular stood out, sounding like a slowed-down heart-rate monitor. Other forms of wildlife rustled in the foliage as I walked past and, as ever, there was the blanket noise of crickets, cicadas, whatever they were called. They seemed to be everywhere, in every jungle, though I'd never seen one. I wasn't fooled by the sunshine or the animals rustling in the foliage. I knew there was more rain to come. The dark clouds hadn't completely dispersed, and thunder still rumbled in the distance. I rounded a gentle bend and a pair of iron gates came into view, blocking the road about four hundred metres ahead. They were set into a high, whitewashed wall that disappeared into the jungle on each side. Once I'd confirmed that I was still heading westish, it was time to get back into cover. I eased my way in, moving branches and fronds aside carefully rather than just crashing through. I didn't want to mark my entry point with top sign sign that is made above ground level and which in this case might be seen from the road. A large rubber leaf or a fern, for example, doesn't naturally expose its lighter underside; that only happens if it's disturbed by someone or something brushing past. The leaf will eventually turn back to its darker side so it can gather light, but to the trained eye in the meantime it's as good as dropping your business card. I had no idea if these people would be switched-on enough to notice such things as they drove past, but I wasn't going to leave that to chance. Once under the canopy, I felt like I was in a pressure cooker; the humidity has nowhere to go, and it gives your lungs a serious work-out. Rainwater still fell in bursts as unseen birds took flight from the branches above. Having moved maybe thirty metres in a direct line away from the road, I stopped to check the compass. My aim now was to head west again and see if I hit the perimeter wall. If I encountered nothing after an hour I'd stop, move back, and try again. It would be very easy to become 'geographically embarrassed', as officers call it: in the jungle the golden rule is to trust your compass, no matter what your instincts are telling you. The wall of green was maybe seven metres away, and that was where I would focus my attention as I moved, to detect any hostiles and find the house. As I moved off, I felt a tug on my sleeve and realized I'd encountered my first batch of wait-a-while. It's a thin, twine-like vine, studded with tiny barbs that dig into clothing and skin, much like a bramble. Every jungle I'd been in was infested with the stuff. Once it's caught you, the only way to get clear is to tear yourself free. If you try to extricate yourself barb by barb, you'll be there for ever. I pushed on. I had to get to the house before last light so I could carry out a decent recce with some degree of visibility. Besides, I didn't want to be stuck in here once it was dark: I'd never make the morning RVs, and would then waste time waiting for midday, instead of preparing for the job I was here to do. For the next half an hour or so I headed uphill and west, frequently untangling myself from batches of wait-a-while. At last I stopped and leant against a tree to catch my breath and check the compass. I didn't know what sort of tree it was; for some strange reason I could recognize a mahogany, and this wasn't one. My hands were covered with small cuts and scratches now, which hurt like wasp stings. I moved off once more, thinking about the CTR. Under ideal conditions, I'd take time to find out the target's routine, so that I could take him on in a killing ground of my choosing; that way, I had the advantage. But I didn't have time, and the only thing I'd learnt from Aaron about Michael's movements was that he would be going in to college at some point this week. It's easy enough to kill someone; the hard bit is getting away with it. I needed to find the easiest way of dropping him so there was as little risk to me as possible. I could get all Rambo'd up and storm the place, but that wasn't part of my plan, not yet anyway. I saw open space about six or seven metres ahead, just beyond the wall of green, flooded with brilliant sunlight and awash with mud. I moved slowly back into the jungle until it disappeared from sight, and stood against a tree. Standing still and doing nothing but take deep breaths and wipe the sweat from my face, I started to hear the world above me once more. I was hot, sticky, out of breath, and gagging for a drink, but I found myself captivated by the amazing sound of a howler monkey in the treetops, busy living up to its name. Then I slapped my face yet again to zap whatever it was that had landed to say hello. Moisture seeped out of my leather belt as I squeezed it open, tucked in my sweatshirt and generally sorted myself out. I knew that my jeans would soon be hanging off my arse again, but it didn't matter, this just made me feel better. I felt the first of what I knew was going to be a whole colony of itchy bumps on my neck, and quite a big one coming up on my left eyelid. My basic plan for the recce was to simulate one of those electric toys that motor around the floor until they bump into a wall, then rebound, turn round, move off, turn round again and bounce back on to the wall somewhere else. A lot of questions needed answering. Was there physical security, and if so, were they young or old? Did they look switched on and/or armed? If so, what with? If there was technical security, where were the devices, and were they powered up? The best way of finding answers was just to observe the target for as long as possible. Some questions can be answered on site, but many only pop up once you're tucked up with a cup of cocoa and trying to come up with a plan. The longer I stayed there, the more information would sink into my unconscious for me to drag out later if I needed it. The big question would I have to do a Rambo? remained, but I'd answer that on target. My mind drifted back to the Yes Man and Sundance, and I knew I might have to if there was no other way. But then I cut away from that stuff; what I needed to do now was get my arse up to that mud a few metres away and have a look at what was out there before I got lost inside my head. Concentrating on the green wall, I moved carefully forward. I saw the sunlight reflecting off the puddles maybe six metres in front of me and dropped slowly on to my stomach in the mud and rotting leaves. Stretching out my arms, I put pressure on my elbows and pushed myself forward on the tips of my toes, lifting my body just clear of the jungle floor, sliding about six inches at a time, trying to avoid crushing dead, pale yellow palm leaves as I moved. They always make a brittle, crunching noise, even when they're wet. It felt like I was back in Colombia, closing in on the DMP to carry out a CTR so an attack could be planned with the information we brought back. I never thought that I'd still be doing this shit nearly ten years later. I stopped every couple of bounds, lifted my head from the dirt, looked and listened, while slowly pulling out thorns from my hands and neck as the mozzies got busy again. I was starting to have second thoughts about my little love affair with the jungle. I realized I only liked it when I was standing up. My alligator impression was hard work in this humidity, and I was starting to pant, with every sound magnified tenfold so close to the ground; even the leaves seemed to crackle more than they normally would. The sharp pain in my ribs didn't help much, but I knew all the discomfort would disappear once I was on top of the target house. I inched closer to the wall of sunlight as leaf litter and other shit from the jungle floor worked its way inside my jacket sleeves and down the front of my sweatshirt. The plastic bag rustled gently inside my jacket. Now that my jeans had worked their way back down my arse, bits of twig and broken leaf were also finding their way on to my stomach. I was not having a good day out. Another bound, then I stopped, looked and listened. Slowly wiping away the sweat that was running into my eyes and wishing that they weren't so tired, I squashed some airborne monster that was munching away at my cheek. I still couldn't see anything in front of me apart from sunlight and mud, and knew I was so low down that I'd have to wait until I was right up on the canopy's edge to get a good view of whatever was out there. The first thing I spotted of any significance was wire fencing along the edge of the treeline. I moved carefully towards the most prickly and uninviting bush at the edge of the clearing and wormed my way into it, cutting my hands on the barbs that covered its branches. They were so sharp that the pain of being cut wasn't instant; it came a few seconds later, like getting sliced with a Stanley knife. Lying on my stomach, I rested my chin on my hands, looked up and listened, trying to take in every detail. As soon as I'd stopped moving, the mozzies formed into stacks above me, like 747s waiting to land at Heathrow. I found myself looking through a four-inch chain-link fence, designed more to keep out wildlife than humans. The house was obviously very new, and by the look of things Charlie Chan had been so keen to move in he hadn't waited for proper security. The open space in front of me was a gently undulating plateau covering maybe twenty acres. Tree stumps stuck out here and there like rotten teeth, waiting to be dragged out or blasted before a lawn was laid. I couldn't see any oceans from where I lay, just trees and sky. Caterpillar-tracked plant was scattered about the area, lying idle, but business at Choi and Co. was obviously booming in every other respect, now that the US had gone. The house looked more like a luxury hotel than a family hideaway. The main building was sited no more than three hundred metres to my left. I wasn't face-on to the target, along the line of the gate and wall; I must have clipped a corner because I'd come on to the right-hand perimeter. I had a clear view of the front and right-hand elevation. It was a massive, three floor Spanish-style villa with brilliant whitewashed walls, wrought-iron balconies and a pristine terra cotta roof. Standing proud of this was a belvedere tower, constructed completely of glass. That was where you'd see the oceans from. Other pitched roofs at different heights radiated out in all directions from the main building, covering a network of verandas and archways. A swimming pool sparkled to the right of the main house, surrounded by a raised patio; distressed, Roman-style stone pillars were dotted about, to give it that Gladiator look. The only things missing were a few statues of sixteenth-century Spaniards with swords and baggy trousers. A set of four tennis courts stood behind a line of fencing. Nearby, three large satellite dishes were set into the ground. Maybe Charlie liked to watch American football, or check the Nasdaq to see how his money-laundering activities were shaping up. Including the Lexus, there were six shiny SUVs and pickups parked outside a large turning circle that bordered a very ornate stone fountain, then led down to the front gates, maybe three hundred metres to my left. I looked back at the vehicles. One in particular had caught my eye. A dark blue CMC with blacked-out windows. Most impressively, there was a white and yellow Jet Ranger helicopter using some of the driveway in front of the house as a pad. Just the thing to beat the morning commute. I lay still and watched, but there was no movement, nothing going on. I opened my jaw a little to close off my swallowing sounds, trying to pick up any noise from the house, but I. was too far away and they were too sensible: they kept indoors in the conditioned air. My head was getting covered with lumps as I watched thousands of large dark red ants start to trundle past just inches from my nose, carrying scraps of leaf sometimes twice their own size. The leading few hundred were blazing the path maybe thirty abreast, the rest behind so closely packed I could hear them rustling. I got back to looking at the target and became aware of a pretty unpleasant smell. It didn't take long to work out that it was me. I was wet, covered in mud, bits of twig and brush, itching all over and desperate to rub at the mozzie bites. I was sure I could feel something new munching at the small of my exposed back. I just had to let it munch: the only things I could risk moving were my eyes. Maybe I'd get back to loving the jungle tomorrow, but at the moment I wanted a divorce. After nearly twenty years of this stuff I really did need to get a life. There was certainly no need to become an electric toy and do a 360-degree tour of the target: I could see everything I needed from here. Getting close to the house in daylight would be impossible there was far too much open ground to cover. It might be just as difficult at night; I didn't yet know if they had any night-viewing facility, or closed-circuit TV with white light or an IR capability covering the area, so I had to assume they did. My problems didn't end there. Even if I did get to the house, where would I find Michael? Only Errol Flynn can walk into the front hall and pop behind a big curtain while squads of armed guards march past. Swapping my hands over and adjusting the position of my chin, I started to take in the scene in front of me. I had to squeeze my gritty eyes shut constantly, then refocus. The ant columns were doing just fine as an enormous black butterfly landed an inch or two from my nose. Again I was back in Colombia. Anything that was colourful and flew, we caught for Bernard. He was over six foot four, weighed nineteen stone, and looked as if he ate babies for breakfast. He sort of let everyone down by collecting butterflies and moths for his mother instead. We would come back into base camp from a patrol and the fridge would be filled with sealed jars full of things with wings instead of cold drinks and Marmite. But no one was ever going to say anything to his face in case he decided to pin us to the wall instead. In the distance there was the slow, low rumble of thunder as the heat haze shimmered over the open ground in front of me, and steam rose gently from the mud. It would have been wonderful to get out there and stretch out in the sun, away from this world of gloom and mozzies. The shrill buzzing as they attacked the side of my head sounded like a demonic dentist's drill and I had definitely been bitten by something psychopathic on my lower back. There was movement from the house. Two white, short-sleeved shirts and ties came out of the main door with a man in a shocking pink Hawaiian shirt who climbed into the CMC. My friend the Pizza Man. The other two got into one of the pickups and a fourth, running from the main door, jumped on to the back. Standing up, leaning forward against the cab, he looked like he was leading a wagon train as the pickup rounded the fountain and headed for the gates with the CMC following. He wasn't dressed as smartly as the other two: he was in black wellies and carried a wide-brimmed straw hat and a bundle of something or other under his arm. Both wagons stopped for maybe thirty seconds as the gates swung open, then drove out of sight as they closed again behind them. A gust of wind made the trees sway at the edge of the canopy. It wouldn't be long before the next batch of rain was heading this way. I'd have to get going if I wanted to be out of the jungle by last light. I started to shift backwards on my elbows and toes, got on to my hands and knees for a while, and finally to my feet once I was safely behind the wall of green. I gave myself a frenzied scratch and shake, tucked everything back in, ran my fingers through my hair and rubbed my back against a tree. A rash of some sort was developing at the base of my spine and the temptation to scratch it more was unbearable. My face probably looked like Darth Maul's by now. My left eyelid had swollen up big-time, and was starting to close. Baby-G told me it was just after five: maybe an hour and a bit before last light, as it gets dark under the canopy before it does outside. I was gagging for a drink but I'd have to wait until it rained again. My plan now was to move south towards the road, turn right and parallel it under the canopy until I hit the edge of the cleared area again nearer the gate, then sit and watch the target under cover of darkness. That way, as soon as I'd finished, I could jump on to the tarmac to meet Aaron down at the loop at three a.m. instead of being stuck in here for the night. I headed off through the thick wall of humidity. Wet tarmac and a dark, moody sky soon came into sight through the foliage, just as the BUBs has ha-up beetles) started to go for it all around me with their high-pitched screams. They sounded like crickets with megaphones. They were telling me that God was about to switch off the light in here and go to bed. A distant rumble of thunder resonated across the treetops, and then there was silence, as if the jungle was holding its breath. Thirty seconds later, I felt the first splashes of rain. The noise of it hitting the leaves even drowned out the BUBs, then the thunder roared directly overhead. Another thirty seconds and the water had worked its way down from the canopy and back on to my head and shoulders. I turned right and picked my way towards the fence line, paralleling the road about seven or eight metres in. Mentally I was preparing myself for a miserable few hours in the dark. However, it was better to kill time watching the target while I waited for Aaron than doing nothing down at the loop. Time in reconnaissance is seldom wasted. And at least I knew there was no need to crawl into position: the house was too far away for them to spot me. I moved forward, trying to make a record in my head of everything I'd seen so far at the target. Every twenty paces or so I stopped to check the compass as thunder detonated high above the canopy and rain beat a tattoo on the leaves and the top of my head. I was displaying a builder's crack where my jeans should have been, but it didn't matter, I'd sort myself out again later on. I started to slip and slide on the mud beneath the leaf litter. I just wanted to get up to the fence before it got dark. I fell on to my knees at one stage and discovered some rocks concealed beneath the mud. I sat there for a while in the dirt, rain running into my eyes and ears and down my neck, waiting for the pain to ease. At least it was warm. I got up, still resisting the temptation to scratch my back rash to death. A few more metres and a large rotted tree trunk blocked my way. I couldn't be bothered working around it then back on to my compass bearing, so I just lay across it on my stomach and twisted myself over. The bark came away from the rotting wood like the skin on a blister and my chest throbbed from the beasting Sundance and his mate had treated me to in the garage. As I got to my feet, looking down, brushing off bark, I caught a glimpse to my right of something unnatural, something that shouldn't have been there. In the jungle there are no straight lines and nothing is perfectly flat; everything's random. Everything except this. The man was looking straight at me, rooted to the spot five or six metres away. FOURTEEN He was wearing a green US Army poncho with the hood over his head. Rain dripped from the wide-brimmed straw hat perched on top of that. He was a small guy, about five five, his body perfectly still, and if I could have seen his eyes they would probably have been wide and dancing around, full of indecision. Fight or flight? He must have been flapping. I knew I was. My eyes shot towards the first six inches or so of a gollock (machete) that his right hand was resting on and which protruded from the green nylon of his poncho. I could hear the rain pounding on the taut nylon, like a drum roll, before it dripped down to his black wellies. I kept my eyes fixed on the exposed part of what was probably two feet of gollock blade. When he moved, so would that thing. Nothing was happening, no talking, no movement, but I knew that one of us was going to get hurt. We stood there. Fifteen seconds felt like fifteen minutes. Something had to be done to break the stand-off. I didn't know what he was going to do I didn't think he did yet but I certainly wasn't going to be this close to a gollock and not do something to protect myself, even if it was with just a pair of pointed pliers. The knife on my Leatherman would take too long to find and pull out. I reached round with my right hand, and felt for the soaking, slimy leather pouch. My fingers fumbled to undo the retaining stud then closed around the hard steel of the Leatherman. And all the time, my eyes never left that still static gollock. He made his decision, screaming at the top of his voice as he ran at me. I made mine, turning and bolting in the direction of the road. He probably thought my hand was going for a pistol. I wished it had been. I was still fumbling to get the Leatherman out of its pouch as I ran, folding the two handles back on themselves, exposing the pliers as he followed in my wake. He was shouting stuff. What? Shouting for help? Telling me to stop? It didn't matter, the jungle swallowed it. I got caught on wait-a-while, but it might have been tissue paper to me right then. I could hear the nylon poncho flapping behind me and the adrenaline pumped big-time. I could see tarmac ... once on that he wouldn't be able to catch me in those wellies. I lost my footing, falling on to my arse but gripping the Leatherman as if my life depended on it. It did. I looked up at him. He dinked left and stopped, eyes wide as saucers as the gollock rose into the air. My hands went down into the mud and I slipped and slithered, moving backwards, trying to get back on to my feet. His screams got higher in pitch as the blade flashed through the air. It must have been a cheap buy: the blade hit a sapling and made a thin tinny sound. He spun round, exposing his back to me in his frenzy, still screaming and shouting as he, too, slipped on the mud and on to his arse. As he fell, the rear of the poncho caught on some wait-a-while and was yanked vertically. With the Leatherman still in my right hand I grabbed the flailing material with my left and pulled back on it as hard as I could, not knowing what I was going to do next. All I knew was that the gollock had to be stopped. This was one of Chan's men, those boys who crucified and killed their victims. I wasn't going to join the queue. I pulled again as he landed on his knees, yanking him completely backwards on to the ground. I grabbed another handful of cape and pulled, constricting his neck by bunching the nylon of the hood as I got up. I could hear the rain hitting the tarmac outside as he kicked out and I dragged him and our noise back into the jungle, still not too sure what I was doing. He had his left hand around the hood of his poncho, trying to protect his neck as the nylon squeezed against it. The gollock was in his right. He couldn't see me behind him, but still he hit out, swirling around in desperation. The blade slashed the poncho. Still screaming at the top of his lungs in fear and anger, he kicked out as if he was having an epileptic fit. I bobbed and weaved like a boxer, not knowing why it just seemed a natural reaction to having sharp steel waved in my face. His arse bulldozed through leaves and palm branches. The struggle must have looked like a park ranger trying to drag a pissed-off crocodile out of the water by its tail. I was just concentrating on getting him back into the jungle and making sure the whirling blade didn't connect with me. But then it did big-time sinking into my right calf. I screamed with pain as I held on, still dragging him backwards. I had no choice: if I stopped moving he'd be able to get up. Fuck if anyone heard us, I was fighting for my life. The crocodile thrashed and twisted around on the floor as there || was another almighty clap of thunder, a deep resonant rumbling that seemed to go on for ever. Forked lightning crackled high above, its noise drowning out his shouts and the clatter of rain. The sharp pain of the cut spread out from my leg, but there was I nothing I could do but go on dragging him into the jungle. I didn't see the log. My legs hit it and buckled and I fell backwards, keeping my grip on the poncho as I crashed into a palm. Rainwater came down in a torrent. The pain in my leg was gone in an instant. It was more important to fill my head with other things, like living. The guy felt the material round his neck relax, and instantly turned round. As he scrambled on to his knees, the gollock was up. I crabbed backwards on my hands and feet, trying to get myself upright again, trying to keep clear of his reach. Cursing and screaming in Spanish, he lunged forward in a wild frenzy. I saw two wild dark eyes as the gollock blade swung at me. I thrashed backwards and managed to get myself on to my feet. It was time to run again. I felt the gollock whoosh through the air behind me. This was getting Outrageous. 1 was going to die. Fuck it, I had to take a chance. I turned and charged straight at him, face down, bending forward so that only my back was exposed. My whole focus was on the area of the poncho where his stomach should have been. I screamed at the top of my voice, more for my own benefit than his. If I wasn't quick enough, I'd soon know because I'd feel the blade slice down between my shoulders. The Leatherman pliers were still in my right hand. I got into him and felt his body buckle with the impact as I wrapped my left arm around him and tried to pinion his gollock arm. Then I rammed the pointed tips against his stomach. Both of us moved backwards. The pliers hadn't penetrated his skin yet: they were held by the poncho and whatever was underneath. He screamed, too, probably feeling the steel trying to pierce him. We hit a tree. His back was against it and I lifted my head and body, using my weight to force the pliers to penetrate his clothing and flesh. He gave an agonized howl, and I felt his stomach tighten. It must have looked as if I was trying to have sex with him as I kept on pushing and bucking my body against him, using my weight against him with the pliers between us. At last I felt his stomach give way. It was like pushing into a sheet of rubber; and once they were in, there was no way they were coming out again. I churned my hand up and down and round in circles, any way that I could to maximize the damage. My head was over his left shoulder and I was breathing through clenched teeth as he screamed just inches from the side of my face. I saw his bared teeth as they tried to bite me, and head butted him to keep him away. Then he screamed so loudly into my face I could feel the force of his breath. By now I wasn't even sure if the gollock was still in his hands or not. I smelt cologne and felt his smooth skin against my neck as he thrashed his face around, his body bucking and writhing. The stab wound must have enlarged, as he was leaking over me. Blood had got past the hole in the poncho and I could feel the warmth of it on my hands. I continued to push in, keeping my body up against his, using my legs to keep him trapped between me and the tree. His noises were getting softer and I could feel his warm slobber on my neck. My hand was virtually inside his stomach now, taking the poncho with it. I could smell the contents of his intestinal tract. He collapsed forward on to me and took me down with him on to my knees. Only then did I withdraw my hand. As the Leatherman emerged and I kicked him off, he fell into the foetal position. He might have been crying; I couldn't really tell. I moved away quickly, picked up the gollock from where he'd dropped it, and went and sat against a tree, fighting for breath, unbelievably relieved it was all over. As my body calmed down, the pain came back to my leg and chest. I pulled up my slashed jeans on my right leg and inspected the damage. It was to the rear of the calf; the gash was only about four inches long and not very deep, but bad enough to be leaking quite badly. My hand, clenched around the Leatherman, looked much worse than it was as the rain diluted his blood. I tried to fold out the knife blade but it was difficult; my hand was shaking, now that I'd released my tight grip, and probably through shock as well. In the end I had to use my teeth, and when the blade was finally open I used it to cut my sweatshirt sleeves into wet strips. With these I improvised a bandage, wrapping it around my leg to apply pressure on the wound. I sat there in the mud for a good five minutes, rainwater streaming down my face and into my eyes and mouth, dripping off my nose. I stared at the man, still lying in a foetal position, covered in mud and leaf litter. The poncho was up around his chest like a pulled-up dress, and the rain still beat on it like a drums king Both his hands clutched his stomach; blood glistened as it seeped through the gaps between his fingers. His legs made small circular movements as if he was trying to run. I felt sorry for him, but I'd had no choice. Once that length of razor-sharp steel started flying around it was either him or me. I wasn't feeling too proud of myself, but placed that feeling in my mental bin with the lid back on when I began to see that this wasn't exactly the local woodcutter I'd stumbled across. His nails were clean and well manicured, and though his hair was a mess of mud and leaves, I could see it was well cut, with a square neck and neatly trimmed sideburns. He was maybe early thirties, Spanish, good-looking and clean-shaven. He had one unusual feature: instead of two distinct eyebrows, he had just one big one. This guy wasn't a farmhand, he was a city boy, the one who'd been standing in the back of the pickup. As Aaron had said, these people didn't fuck about and he would have sliced me up without a second thought. But what had he been doing in here? I sat and stared at him as it got darker and the rain and thunder did its thing above the canopy. This episode spelt the end of the recce, and both of us were going to have to disappear. For sure he was going to be missed. Maybe he had been already. They would come looking for him, and if they knew where he had been, it wouldn't take them long to find him if I left him here. I folded down my bloodstained Leatherman and put it back in its pouch, wondering if Jim Leatherman had ever imagined his invention would be used like this. I guessed that the fence must be closer than the road now: if I headed for that, at least I'd have something to guide me out of the jungle in the darkness. Unibrow's breathing was shallow and quick, and he was still gripping his stomach with both hands, his face screwed up in pain as he mumbled weakly to himself. I forced his eyes open. Even in this low light there should have been a better reaction in his pupils; they should have closed a lot quicker. He was definitely on his way out. I went in search of his hat, gollock in hand. It was a bottom-of-the-range thing, with a plastic handle riveted each side of very thin, rust-spotted steel. What to do with him once we were out of here? If he was still alive I couldn't take him to a hospital because he'd talk about me, which would alert Charlie and compromise the job. I certainly couldn't take him back to Aaron and Carrie's place because that would compromise them. All I knew was that I had to get him away from the immediate vicinity. I'd think of something later. Hat retrieved, I went back to Unibrow, got hold of his right arm, and hoisted him in a fireman's lift over my back and shoulder. There were moans and groans from him and he tried in a pathetic way to kick out at me. I grabbed his right arm and leg and held them together, jumping gently up and down to get him comfy round my shoulders. The small amounts of oxygen that his injuries allowed him to take in were knocked out of him again, no doubt making him feel even worse, but I couldn't help that. The poncho flapped over my face and I had to push it away. I grabbed his hat, and then, gollock back in hand, I checked the compass and headed for the fence line It was getting much darker; I could only just make out where my feet were going. I felt something warm and wet on my neck, warmer than the rain, and guessed it was his blood. Pushing myself hard I limped on, stopping occasionally to check the compass. Nothing else mattered but getting to the road and making the RV. Within minutes I came on to the fence line The BUBs were reaching a crescendo. In another quarter of an hour it was going to be pitch black. Ahead of me, in the open, semi-dark space, was a solid wall of rain, thumping into the mud with such force it was creating mini craters. Lights were already on in the house, and in one area, probably a hallway, an enormous chandelier shone through a high window. The fountain was illuminated but I couldn't see the statue. That was good, because it meant they couldn't see me. I followed the fence for a few minutes, my passenger's head and poncho constantly snagging on branches of wait-a-while so that I had to stop and backtrack to free him. All the time I kept my eyes glued on the house. I came across what looked like a small mammal track, paralleling the fence and about two feet in. I followed it, past caring about leaving sign in the churned-up mud. The rain would sort that out. I'd gone no more than a dozen steps when my limping right leg was whipped away from under me and both of us went crashing into the undergrowth. I lashed out in a frenzy: it was as if an invisible hand had grabbed hold of my ankle and thrown me to one side. I tried to kick out but my right foot was stuck fast. I tried to crawl away but couldn't. Next to me on the ground, Unibrow gave a loud groan of pain. I looked down and saw a faint glimmer of metal. It was wire: I was caught in a snare; the more I struggled, the more it was gripping me. I turned round to make sure where Unibrow was. He was rolled up in his own little world, oblivious to the thunder and forked lightning rattling across the night sky. It was simple enough to ease open the loop. I got to my feet and went over and heaved him back up on to my shoulders, then set off along the track. Just another five minutes of stumbling brought us to the start of the whitewashed rough-stone wall and, ten metres or so later, the tall iron gates. It was good to feel tarmac under my feet. I turned left and moved as quickly as I could to get away from the area. If a vehicle came I'd just have to plunge back into the undergrowth and hope for the best. As I shuffled forward with the weight of the man over my shoulder, I became much more aware of the pain in my right calf. It hurt too much to raise my foot, so I kept my legs as straight as possible, pumping forward with my free arm. Rain ricocheted a good six inches off the tarmac, making a horrendous racket. I realized I'd never be able to hear a vehicle coming up behind us, so I had to keep stopping and turning round. Thunder and lightning roared and crackled behind me and I kept moving as though I was running away from it. It took over an hour but I finally got us both into the canopy at the loop. The rain had eased off but Unibrow's pain hadn't, and neither had mine. The jungle was so dark now I couldn't see my hand in front of my face, only the small luminous specks on the jungle floor, maybe phosphorescent spores or night-time beasties on the move. For an hour or so I sat, rubbed my leg, and waited for Aaron, listening to Unibrow's whimpers, and the sound of his legs moving about in the leaf litter. His groans faded, and eventually disappeared. I crawled over to him on my hands and knees, feeling for his body. Then, following his legs up to his face, all I could hear was weak, wheezy breath trying to force itself through his mucus-filled nostrils and mouth. I pulled out the Leatherman and jabbed his tongue with the blade. There was no reaction, it was just a matter of time. Rolling him on to his back, I lay on top of him and jammed my right forearm into his throat, pushing down with all my weight, my left hand on my right wrist. There was little resistance. His legs kicked out weakly, moving us about a bit, a hand floundered about my arm and another came up weakly to scratch at my face. I simply moved my head out of the way and listened to the insects and his low whimpers as I cut off the blood supply to his head, and oxygen to his lungs. FIFTEEN Wednesday 6 September It's Kev, Kelly's dad. He's lying on the living-room floor, eyes glazed and vacant, his head battered, an aluminium baseball bat lying beside him. There's blood on the glass coffee table and the thick shag-pile carpet, some even splattered on the patio windows. I put my foot on the bottom stair. The shag pile helps keep the noise down, but still it's like treading on ice, testing each step gently for creaks, always placing my feet to the inside edge, slowly and precisely. Sweat pours off my face, I worry if anyone is hiding up there, ready to attack. I get level with the landing, I point my pistol up above my head, using the wall as support, move up the stairs backwards, step by step ... The washing machine is on its final thundering spin downstairs, still the soft rock plays on the radio. As I get nearer to Kev and Marsha's room I can see that the door is slightly ajar, there's a faint, metallic tang ... I can also smell shit, I feel sick, I know I have to go in. Marsha: she's kneeling by the bed, her top half spreadeagled on the mattress, the bedspread covered with blood. Forcing myself to ignore her I move to the bathroom. Aida is lying on the floor, her five-year-old head nearly severed from her shoulders; I can see the vertebrae just holding on. Bang, I go back against the wall and slump on to the floor, blood is everywhere, I get it all over my shirt, my hands, I sit in a pool of it, soaking the seat of my trousers. There is a loud creak of wood splitting above me ... I drop my weapon, curl up and cover my head with my hands. Where's Kelly? Where the fuck is Kelly? "Shit! shit! shit!" There was the crash of branches, followed swiftly by the thud on the jungle floor, close enough that I felt the vibration in the ground as it does when two tonnes of dead tree have just given up the will to stay upright. The crash spooked not only me but also the birds lazing on branches high above. There was screeching and the heavy, slow flap of large wings getting their owners the hell out of there. A few gallons of canopy-held rain had followed the deadfall. I wiped the water from my face and stood up. Shit, it's getting bad. I've never had them on a job and never had them about Kev and his gang. It must be because I'm so knackered, I just feel totally drained ... I pushed hair off my forehead and got a grip of myself. Knackered? So what? Just get on with it. Work is work; cut away from that shit. You know where she is, she's safe, just do the job and try to keep her that way. Deadfall was a constant problem in the jungle, and checking to see if there were any dead trees or branches nearby or overhead when basha'ing up for the night was an SOP (Standard Operating Procedure) that was taken seriously. I marked time, trying to do something with my legs. I could feel pins and needles. Please, not here, not now. According to Baby-G it was 2.23, not long to pick-up. The rain had held off while I'd been here, but now and again a bucketful still fell after being dislodged, bouncing off the foliage on its way down with the sound of a finger tapping on a side drum, as if to accompany my static marching. I'd been here amongst the leaf litter for nearly six hours. It was like having a night out on belt-kit not having the comfort of being off the ground in a hammock and under a poncho, instead having to rough it with just the equipment that you have on your belt: ammunition, twenty-four hours of food, water and medical kit. Only I didn't even have that. Just guaranteed misery as I became part of the jungle floor. I finished with marking time: the sensation had gone away. I'd fought off jet lag, but my body still wanted desperately to curl into a ball and sink into a deep sleep. I felt my way back down against the hard rough bark of a tree and was surrounded by invisible crickets. As I stretched out my legs to ease the cramp in the good one and the pain in the other, I felt around to make sure the sweatshirt dressing was still tight around the wound; it didn't feel as if it was bleeding any more, but it was painful and, I imagined, messy down there. I could feel the pulse throbbing against the edge of the wound. As I moved to relieve the numbness in my arse once more, the soles of my Timber lands pushed against Unibrow. I'd searched him before we went into the treeline, and found a wallet and several metre lengths of copper wire tucked into a canvas pouch on his belt. He'd been setting traps. Maybe he was into that sort of stuff for fun: it wasn't as if the lot up at the house would be in need of the odd wild turkey. I thought back over some of the stuff I'd done over the years, and right now I hated all the jobs I'd ever been on. I hated Unibrow for making me kill him. I hated me. I was sitting in shit, getting attacked by everything that moved, and I'd still had to kill someone else. One way or another that was the way it had always been. Until midnight I'd heard only three vehicles moving along the road, and it was hard to tell if they were heading towards the house or away from it. After that, the only new sounds were the buzzing of insects. At one point a troop of howler monkeys passed us by, using the top of the canopy so they had some starlight to help them see what they were doing. Their booming barks and groans reverberated through the jungle, so loud they seemed to shake the trees. As they swung screeching and bellowing from tree to tree they disturbed the water caught in the giant leaves, and we were rained on again. I sat gently rubbing around the cut on my leg as more buzzes circled my head, stopping just before I felt something bite into my skin. I slapped my face just as I heard movement high above me in the canopy, sending another downpour. Whatever it was up there sounded like it was moving on rather than coming down to investigate, which was fine by me. At 2.58 I heard the low rumble of a vehicle. This time the noise didn't fade. The engine note took over gradually from the chirping of the crickets, passing my position until I could clearly hear the tyres splashing in puddled-up potholes. It stopped just past me, with a gentle squeak of not-too-good brakes. The engine ticked over erratically. It had to be the Mazda. Leaning on the gollock to help me get to my feet, I stretched my legs and tried to get them warmed up as I checked to make sure I still had my docs. The wound felt even more tender now I was standing again, and my clothing was sodden and heavy. Having given in to temptation hours ago, I scratched my lumpy back. I felt around for Unibrow, got hold of an arm and a leg, and heaved him over my shoulder. His body was slightly stiff, but far from rigid. The heat and humidity probably had something to do with that. His free arm and foot flopped around as I jiggled him into position. With the gollock and hat in my right hand I made my way slowly towards the edge of the treeline, my head and eyes at an angle of about forty-five degrees to the ground and half closed to protect them from the unseen wait-a-while. I might as well have closed them completely: I couldn't see a thing. The moment I emerged from the forest, I saw the silhouette of the Mazda, bathed in a glow of white and red reflecting off the wet tarmac. I laid Unibrow down with his hat in the mud and tall grass at the jungle's edge, and squelched towards the passenger side, gollock in hand, checking to make sure there was only one body shape in the cab. Aaron was sitting with both hands gripping the wheel, and in the dull glow of the instruments I could see him staring rigidly ahead like some sort of robot. Even with the window down, he didn't seem to register I was there. I said quietly, "Seen any of those barry-whatever trees yet?" He jumped forward in his seat as if he'd just seen a ghost. Is the back unlocked, mate?" 'Yes." He nodded frantically, his voice shaking. "Good, won't be long." I walked to the rear, opened the tailgate, then went back to fetch Unibrow. Lifting him in my arms and leaning back to take f| the weight, I carried him across to the vehicle, not knowing || whether Aaron could see what was happening. The suspension || sank a little as I dumped the body on the crap-strewn floor. His ; | hat followed, and in the dim glow from the tail-lights I covered " him with his own poncho, then lowered the tailgate before gently ; clicking it shut. The back window was a small oval, covered in grime. Nobody would be able to see through. ;' I went round to the passenger door and jumped in. Water | oozed from my jeans and soaked into the blanket covering the ' seat. Aaron was still in the same position. "Let's go then, mate. Not too fast, just drive normally." He pushed the selector into Drive and we moved off. A cool draught of air from the open window hit my lumpy face, and as ; we splashed through pot-holes I leaned down and placed the gollock under my feet. ; Aaron at last found the courage to speak. "What's in the back?" L There was no point beating about the bush. "A body." "God forbid." His hands ran through his hair as he stared v through the windscreen, before attacking his beard once more. ! "God forbid ... What happened?" i I didn't answer, but listened to the rasping of stubble as his left ( hand wiped imaginary demons from his face. What are we going to do, Nick?" "I'll explain later it's OK, it isn't a drama." I tried to keep my voice slow and calm. "All we need to worry about is getting away from the area, and then I'll sort the problem out, OK?" Switching on the cab light, I fumbled for Unibrow's wallet in my jeans and pulled it apart. He had a few dollars, and a picture ID that called him Diego Paredes and said he had been born in November '76 two months after I'd joined the Army. There was a cropped photograph of him and what looked like his parents and maybe some brothers and sisters, all dressed up, sitting at a table, glasses raised at the camera. Aaron had obviously seen it. "Someone's son," he said. Weren't they all? I put everything back in the leather compartments. His head was obviously full of a million and one things he wanted to say. "Can't we take him to hospital? We can't just keep him in the back, for God's sake." I tried to sound relaxed. "Basically, we have to but only for now." I looked across at him. He didn't return my glance, just stared at the headlights hitting the road. He was in a world of his own, and a frightening one it was. I kept my gaze on the side of his face, but he couldn't bring himself to make eye contact. "He belongs to Charlie. If they find his body, it could put all of us in danger all of us. Why take that risk?" I let that sink in for a bit. He knew what I was talking about. When a threat's extended to a man's wife and children, it invariably focuses his way of thinking. I needed to inst il confidence in this character, not anxiety. "I know what I'm doing and he's just got to come with us for now. Once we're out of the area we'll make sure we dump him so he's never found." Or at least, as far as I was concerned, not before Saturday morning. There was a long, awkward silence as we drove along the jungle-lined tarmac and eventually hit the ghost town of Clayton. The headlights picked out the shadows of empty houses, barracks, and deserted streets and children's play areas. It looked even more deserted at night, as if the last American soldier had turned off the lights before he went home for good. We turned a corner and I could see the high-mounted floodlights of the locks a few kilometres in the distance, shimmering like a big island of white light. The superstructure of a heavily laden container ship was facing to the right, half hidden as it waited in the lock for the water to surge in and raise its massive bulk. SIXTEEN I was just too fucked to worry about anything, but Aaron was in deep flap mode. His left hand couldn't stop touching or rubbing his face. His eyes kept checking through the rear window, trying to see the body in the back, even though it was in pitch darkness. We were driving alongside a very wide, deep, U-shaped concrete storm trench. I got Aaron to stop and turn off his lights, and he faced me for the first time, probably hoping that we were going to do something about Unibrow. I nodded towards the lights. "I've got to clean myself up before we hit all that." I wanted to look at least a bit normal, in case we were seen or stopped as we went through the city. Being wet wasn't unusual here, it rained a lot. I could have told him it was time for my daily prayers and he would probably have replied the same way. "Oh, OK." Once I forced my aching body out of the Mazda I could see what was going on under the floodlights. The stumpy electric lo cos were moving up and down the tracks beside the ship, looking like little toys from this distance and too far away to be heard properly. Only a muffled version of the radio traffic from the speakers reached us. The glow from the powerful arc-lights got to us, though, giving just enough light to see what was going on about us, and cast a very weak shadow on the Mazda as I went to the rear and lifted the tailgate to check Unibrow. He had been sliding about and he was pushed hard against the side body work his nose and lips compressed, his arms thrown behind him as if they couldn't catch up. The stench of blood and guts was so strong I had to move my head away. It smelt like a freezer after a power-cut. Leaving the tailgate up, I scrambled two or three metres down the side of the concrete ditch and into the surging storm water. Bits of tree and vegetation raced past my legs as I pulled the plastic bag from under my jacket and wedged it above the water-line in the gap between two of the concrete sections. Even if I had to run naked from this spot I would still be armed with my documents. I squatted in the edge of the flow and washed off all the mud, blood and leaf litter that covered me, as if I was having a bath with my clothes on. I didn't bother to check the wound; I'd sort it out later, and in the meantime all I'd do was keep the cut-up sweatshirt wrapped around it and just sit in the water and rest for a second. I hadn't really noticed it up till now, but the sky was very clear and full of stars, sparkling like the phosphorescence on the jungle floor as I slowly took off my jacket. I heard Aaron's door creak open and looked up to see him silhouetted against the glow from the canal. By now I was nearly naked, rinsing my jeans in the trench before wringing them out and throwing them up on to the grass, then checking out my back rash and face. I watched as he stuck his head slowly into the back of the wagon. He recoiled and turned away, vomit already exploding from his mouth. I heard it splatter against the side of the vehicle and tarmac above me, then the sounds of him retching up those last bits that stay in your throat and nose. I scrambled up on to the grass and hurriedly dressed in my wet clothes. Aaron had his last cough and snort and walked back to the cab, wiping his beard with a handkerchief. Sidestepping the pool of vomit on the tarmac, I covered Unibrow again with the poncho, lowered the tailgate, and climbed in next to Aaron, ignoring what had just happened even though I could smell it on his breath. That's better, wet but clean-ish." I grinned, trying to lighten the tone. Aaron didn't respond. He looked terrible, even in this low light. His eyes were glistening with tears and his breathing was sharp and quick as he swallowed hard, maybe to stop himself throwing up again. His large hairy Adam's apple bobbed up and down like a fishing float with a bite. He was having a moment with his thoughts, not even realizing I'd spoken as he rubbed his stubble with shaking hands. "Back to your place, then how far is it again, mate?" I patted him on the shoulder and he nodded, turning the ignition with another little cough. He gave a quiet, resigned, "Sure." His voice trembled as he added, "It's about four hours, maybe more. We've had some very heavy rain." I made the effort and kept my happy voice on, not really knowing what else to do or say "We'd better get a move on, then, hadn't we?" We got through Fort Clayton and hit the main drag; the Barrier was up, it seemed the old security guy didn't play at n