"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 ha.s.sle."

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 ca.n.a.l. We'll be in the Zone," he corrected himself, 'the old Ca.n.a.l 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 a.s.sociation, 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 pa.s.sed 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.

Skysc.r.a.ping 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 gra.s.s 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 ca.n.a.l, 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 ma.s.sive 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, G.o.d 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 gla.s.ses 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 ama.s.sed 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 ca.n.a.l 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 c.o.ke. 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 gra.s.s. Road signs were still visible telling troops not to drink and drive, and to remember they were amba.s.sadors for their country.

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

"Nick, do you mind if we stop for a c.o.ke? 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 c.o.ke stop. It's only a few minutes off the route."

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

We pa.s.sed the main gate of the camp and Aaron sighed. The bold bra.s.s 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 Sat.u.r.day."

"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 bra.s.s 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 pa.s.sengers plus. It's been coming through here for years, runs out of San Diego to the Caribbean."

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

"Yeah, it's this Sat.u.r.day, 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 gra.s.s. 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 ca.n.a.l 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 pa.s.ses 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 ca.n.a.l 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 c.o.ke. A truck-trailer had grown roots in the middle of the car park and become a cafe-c.u.m-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 s.p.a.ce 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 bra.s.s 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 gra.s.s facing the lock, supplementing the permanent one to the left of it, by the visitors' centre, which was also covered in bunting. Sat.u.r.day 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 gra.s.s. 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. s.h.i.t, 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. .h.i.t 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 gra.s.s below, just as Aaron came back with four cans of Minute Maid.

"No c.o.ke 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.