Last Light (37 page)

I edged forward a little more, so slowly it would have made a sloth look like Linford Christie. Another couple of metres and the bottom of the door sills and the front wing came into view but in the gap between them and the grass, I saw no legs. Maybe he was sitting inside, maybe, as the buckling sound had suggested, he was standing on the roof. My eyes strained at the tops of their sockets as I tried to look up. I heard the coughing up of phlegm and spitting;

he was definitely outside, definitely up there somewhere.

I counted off sixty seconds before moving again. He was going to hear me soon. I didn't even want to swallow: I was so close I could have reached out and touched the wheel.

I still couldn't see him, but he was above me, sitting on the bonnet, and his heels had started to bang rhythmically against the wing furthest away from me.

He must be facing the road.

I knew what I needed to do, but I had to psyche myself to do it. It's never easy to take on somebody like this. Up there was virgin ground, and when I got on to it, I had to react quickly to whatever I found. What if there was another guy in the wagon, lying asleep? What if he had heard me and was just waiting for me to pop up?

For the next thirty seconds I revved myself up as mozzies hovered around my face. I checked I was holding the gollock correctly with a good firm grip, and that the blade was facing the right way. I took one last deep breath and sprang to my feet.

He was sitting on the opposite wing with his back to me, weapon on the bonnet to his left. He heard me, but it was too late to turn. I was already leaping towards him, my thighs striking the edge of the bonnet, my feet in the air. My right hand swung round and jammed the gollock across his neck; with my left I grabbed the blunt edge of the blade and pulled tight, trying to drag his head on to my chest.

The M-16 scraped over the body work as he moved back with me over the wing, my body weight starting to pull us both to the ground as his legs kicked and his body twisted. His hands came up to grab my wrists, trying to pull the gollock away, and there was a scream. I squeezed his head against my chest and committed to falling backwards off the wagon. The air exploded out of me as my back hit the ground and he landed on top of me, and we both cried out with pain.

His hands were round the gollock and he writhed like a madman, kicking out in all directions, banging against the wheel and wing. I opened my legs and wrapped them round his waist, forcing my feet between his legs, then flexed my hips in the air and thrust out my chest, trying to stretch him as I pushed the gollock against his neck. I worked my head down to his left ear.

"Ssssh!"

I could feel the gollock in the folds of his skin. The blade must have penetrated his neck a little; I felt warm blood on my hands. I shushed him again and he finally seemed to get the message.

Keeping my hips thrust out, I bent him over me in an arc. He stopped moving, apart from his chest, which heaved up and down. I could still feel his hands against mine as he gripped the blade, but he wasn't struggling any more. I kept on shushing into his ear.

He didn't say or do anything as I forced him over to the right, pulling back on the blade, murmuring, "Come on, over you go, over you go," not knowing if he could even understand me. Soon my chest was on his head, pressing his face into the leaf litter, and I was able to look behind me for the M-16. It wasn't far away; I got my foot into the sling and pulled it within reach. The safety catch was on, which was good: it meant the weapon was made ready, that there was a round in the chamber, because you can't apply Safe on these things otherwise. I could hardly use it to threaten him if he knew it wasn't ready to fire.

There was snorting from his nostrils as they filled up with mucus from shock, and the movement of his chest made me feel I was on a trampoline. I still had one of my legs wrapped around him and could feel the weight of his hips on my knee in the mud. The important thing was that apart from his breathing he was motionless exactly as I would have been in this situation because, like him, I'd be wanting to come out of it alive.

I untangled my leg while keeping the pressure on his neck with the gollock, and the moment I was free I used my left hand to grab the M-16. Then, still keeping the blade against his neck, I slowly got up, shushing gently until I was hovering over him and could take away the blade.

He knew exactly what was happening and did the right thing by keeping absolutely still, his face wincing with pain as the blade ran along his neck. It wasn't cut that much, and they weren't deep gashes. Once free, I jumped back and got the M16 on him with just my left hand.

I spoke gently.

"Hello."

His eyes locked on mine, full of fear. I put the gollock to my lips and gave him another shush, nodding for him to get to his feet. He complied very slowly, keeping his hands up even when I began to steer him into the jungle, back in the direction of my kit. There wasn't really enough time to be doing this because more of his crew might arrive at any minute, but I needed to retrieve Carrie's rifle.

We reached the bergen site and I got him to lie face down while I hurriedly shouldered the Mosin Nagant and sheathed the gollock. I pulled back the cocking piece on the M-16 just to make sure there was a round in the chamber, and that both of us hadn't fucked up.

He stared at me, straining his eyes to his extreme left. He was flapping, thinking he had a date with a 5.56mm round at any moment.

I smiled.

"Speak English?"

There was a nervous shaking of his head as I moved a few paces towards him.

"Cpmo est aT He nodded shakily as I got the bergen on.

"Bien, bien."

I put my thumb up and gave him a smile.

"Good, good." I

wanted to bring him down a bit. People who think they have nothing to lose can be unpredictable but if he thought he was going to live, he'd do as he was told.

I wasn't really sure what to do with this boy. I didn't want to kill him because it might turn noisy, and there wasn't any time to try to tie him up properly. I didn't want to take him with me, but there wasn't any choice. I couldn't just let him run wild not this close to the house, anyway. I jerked my head.

"Vamos, vamos."

He got to his feet and I pointed towards the Land Cruiser with the

M-16.

"Camion, vamos, camion." It wasn't exactly fluent, but he caught my drift and we moved.

At the wagon it was simply a matter of shoving the bergen and rifle into the back, then manoeuvring him into the passenger foot well with the M-16 muzzle twisted into his shirt and lying across my lap. The safety catch was on automatic, and my right index finger was on the trigger. He got the message that any movement on his part would be suicide.

The key was in the ignition. I turned it and selected Drive, and we were moving.

The Land Cruiser was shiny and new, still with its showroom smell, and it gave me a strange sense of security. As we headed for Clayton and the city I looked down at my passenger and smiled.

"No problema."

I knew there wouldn't be any problems from him. I'd just seen a wedding band on his finger and knew what he would be thinking about.

The rain was coming early today by the look of the multiple shades of grey, so low now that they were shrouding the rugged, green peaks in the far distance. It wouldn't be long before the sky opened big-time.

What was I to do with my new mate? I couldn't take him through the toll. I might be in a lot of trouble there as it was, if it was now being watched.

We passed one of the playgrounds between the married quarters and I stopped, got out and opened his door. He stared down the barrel of the beckoning M-16.

"Run. Run."

He looked at me, confused, as he climbed out, so I kicked him on and waved my arm.

"Run!" He started legging it past the swings as I got back into the driver's seat and headed for the main drag. By the time he found a phone and made contact, I'd be in the city and well out of the area. I was certainly safe from the air: nothing was going to be flying when the skies opened. I checked the clouds once more, just to make sure.

I also checked the fuel: just under full. I had no idea if that was enough, but it didn't matter, I had cash.

The M-16 was shoved between the door and seat as I hit the main drag and headed for the toll booth.

THIRTY-THREE

The 4x4 pitched and rolled along a waterlogged jungle track, launching walls of water and mud in all directions. I was just glad to be doing it with windows closed and air-conditioning humming. Maybe ten more minutes until I reached the clearing and the house.

The rain had started as soon as I hit El Chorrillo, slowing everything down. By the time I joined the Pan Am Highway, it was dropping from the sky like Niagara Falls, and had carried on like that for the next hour. After that, the cloud had stayed really low and threatening all the way to Chepo. I stopped off at the store the old Indian had been sitting outside two days before, and bought a couple of Pepsis and a plastic bag of little sponge cakes. When those were gone I dug around in the bergen for the sesame bars and water.

There was no drama on the next bit of road apart from the mud and the water. I gave a bit of thought to having to ditch the wagon later on, but the main preoccupation was getting back to the house and persuading those two to help me.

Maybe there was a way that Carrie could get George to stop it. Maybe they knew how to themselves. Maybe if I ripped the dish off the roof ... Maybe, maybe.

Bouncing along the track, I came into the clearing to see that the cloud had lifted. But there was no sun yet, and no one to be seen. Both their wagons were parked outside the house, and the generator was chugging as I passed the tubs, hitting the horn as it seemed to be the thing to do around here.

As I got nearer the house I saw Carrie come to the mozzie door and stare out.

I parked the Land Cruiser and climbed out into the humid air. She opened the mozzie screen for me as I stepped on to the veranda, clearly trying to work out the Land Cruiser.

I waited until the hinges stopped squeaking. 'I'll explain that later ... There's been a fuck-up Charlie's already handed over the guidance system ... last night... There's more."

My muddy boots clumped on the veranda boards as I passed her and entered the living room. I wanted them both together before they got the news. The fans were blasting away and Aaron was sitting in an armchair facing me, leaning over a mug of coffee on the table.

"Nick." His little finger was dipping aimlessly into the black fluid and letting it drip on to the wood.

I acknowledged him as the screen squeaked and slammed, Carrie staying behind me by the door.

He kept his voice low as he rubbed the side of his forehead, twisting in the chair to check the computer-room door was closed.

"Michael dead? She told me all about it when she got back." He turned back and took a messy, nervous swig from the mug.

"No, he's alive."

"Oh, thank God, thank God." Slumping back in the chair, he held the brew on his thigh, wiping his beard dry with an open palm.

Carrie was still behind me by the door. She, too, let out a sigh of relief.

"We've been so worried. My father stood you down last night, missed us by an hour. He said you weren't needed any more and went totally crazy at Aaron when he found out you'd already gone."

I turned to her, almost whispering, "Oh, he's crazy all right." I slowed down so that there would be no mistake.

"I think your dad's planning a missile attack on a cruise liner, the Ocaso, tomorrow. It's going to happen once it's in the Miraflores. If he succeeds, a lot of people, thousands, are going to die."

Her hand shot to her mouth.

"What? But you're here to stop ... No, no, no, my father wouldn't-' "George isn't pressing any buttons." I pointed towards the fridge.

"But he is, the one with the scar on his stomach. You know, the beach babies, your favourite picture." They both followed my finger.

"I saw him at the Miraflores, running as soon as he saw Aaron and the Mazda. He was also at Charlie's, at his house, on Tuesday, and then here last night. He stayed in the wagon, he didn't want to be seen ... Charlie just told me that he was the one who took delivery ..."

"Oh, God. Milton..." She leant against the wall, holding her neck with her hands.

"Milton was one of the Iran-Contra procurement guys in the 'eighties.

They sold the weapons to Iran for the Lebanon hostages, then used the money to buy other -weapons for the Contr- Oh, shit."

Her hands fell to her sides, the tears starting to well up.

"That's his job, Nick, that's what he does."

"Well, he has just procured himself an anti-ship missile and I think he's going to use it tomorrow on the Ocaso."

"No, he couldn't, you must be wrong," she stammered. My father would never let that happen to Americans, for Christ's sake."

"Yes, he would." Aaron had something to say.

"The DeConcini Reservation. Think on it, Carrie, think on it."

His eyes were locked on hers, and he spoke with bitter calm, trying hard to keep his voice down.

"George and those guys ... they are going to take down that ship so the US has just cause to come back. And you know what? He's made us part of it my God, we're part of it. I knew something like this would happen, I told you there was more to this ..."

Carrie slid down to the floor, maybe realizing at long last what her dad had really got up to all his life.

I turned to the rasp of bristles being slowly rubbed.

"She gets into the locks at ten tomorrow morning my God, what are we going to do?"

But the question hadn't been addressed at me. His eyes were still fixed on her.

Why'd he get you involved, uh? Maybe you wanted more than a passport. Maybe you wanted a reason for your get-back-to Boston ticket, huh?"

"I didn't ... and I didn't know, Aaron. Please believe me, I didn't know."

He paused. I could hear breath travelling in and out of his hairy nostrils as he tried to keep calm, before flicking his eyes at me.