"When the loggers leave, these guys turn up subsistence farmers, thousands of them, just poor people trying to grow themselves something to eat. The only problem is, with the trees gone, the topsoil gets washed away, and inside two years they can't grow anything except gra.s.s. So guess who comes in next -the ranchers."

I could see a few minging-looking cows with their heads down, grazing. He jerked his thumb again.

"Next week's burger."

Without warning, Aaron spun the wheel to the right, and that was us quitting the Pan-American Highway. There were no signs on the gravel slip-road, just like in the city. Maybe they liked to keep the population confused.

I saw a huddle of corrugated roofs.

"Chepo?"

"Yep, the bad and sad side."

The compacted-gravel road took us past a scattering of more basic farmers' huts on stilts. Beneath them, chickens and a few old cats mooched around rusty lumps of metal and piles of old tin cans. Some of the shacks had smoke spilling from a clay or rusty metal chimney-pot. One was made out of six or seven catering-size cans, opened both ends and knocked together. Apart from that there was no sign of human life. The bad and sad side of Chepo was in no hurry to greet the dawn. I couldn't say I blamed them.

The odd rooster did its early-morning bit as the huts gradually gave way to larger one-storey buildings, which also seemed to have been plonked randomly on any available patch of ground. Duckboards, instead of pavements, led here and there, supported on rocks that were half submerged in mud. Rubbish had been collected in piles that had then collapsed, the contents strewn. A terrible stink wafted through the Mazda's cab. This place made the doss house in Camden look like Claridge's.

Eventually we pa.s.sed a gas station, which was closed. The pumps were old and rusty, 1970s vintage, with an oval top. So much diesel had been spilled on the ground over the years that it looked like a layer of slippery tar. Water lay in dark, oil-stained puddles. The Pepsi logo and some faded bunting hung from the roof of the gas station itself, along with a sign advertising Firestones.

We pa.s.sed a rectangular building made from more unpainted breeze blocks. The mortar that oozed between the blocks hadn't been pointed, and the builder certainly hadn't believed in plumb-lines. A sinewy old Indian guy wearing green football shorts, a string vest and rubber flip-flops was crouched down by the door, with a roll-up the size of a Rastafarian Old Holborn hanging from his mouth. Through the windows I could see shelves of tinned food.

Further up the road was a large wooden shack, up on stilts like some of the huts. It had been painted blue at one stage in its life, and a sign said that it was a restaurant. As we drew level I saw four leopard skins stretched out and nailed to the wall of the veranda. Below them, chained up in a cage, was the scrawniest big cat I'd ever seen. There was only enough s.p.a.ce for it to turn round, and it just stood, looking incredibly p.i.s.sed off as I would be, if I had to stare at my best mates pinned to the wall all day. I'd never felt so sorry for an animal in all my life.

Aaron shook his head. There was obviously some history to this.

"s.h.i.t, they're still got her in there!" For the first time I was hearing anger in his voice.

"I know for a fact that they sell turtle too, and r?s protected. They can't do that. You're not even allowed to have a parrot in a cage, man, it's the law ... But the police? s.h.i.t, they just spend their whole time worrying about narcos."

He pointed a little ahead of us and up to the left. We were driving towards what reminded me of an army security base in Northern Ireland. High, corrugated-iron fencing protected whatever buildings were inside. Sandbags were piled on top of each other to make bunkers, and the barrel and high-profile sight of an American M-60 machine-gun jutted from the one covering the large double gates. A big sign with a military motif declared this was the police station.

Four enormous trucks were parked up on the other side of the station with equally ma.s.sive trailers filled with stripped tree trunks. Aaron's voice was now thick with anger.

"Just look at that first they cut down every tree they can get their hands on. Then, before they float the logs downstream for these guys to pick up, they saturate them in chemicals. It kills the aquatic life. There's no subsistence farming, no fishing, nothing, just cattle."

We left the depression of Chepo behind us and drove through rough gra.s.sland cratered with pools of rusty-coloured water. My clothes were still damp in places, quite wet in others where my body heat wasn't doing a good enough job.

My leg had started to feel OK until I stretched it out and broke the delicate scabbing. At least Aaron getting sparked up about what was happening in Chepo had diverted his mind from Diego.

The road got progressively worse, until finally we turned off it and hit a rutted track that worked its way to some high ground about three or four kilometres away. No wonder the Mazda was in a s.h.i.t state.

Aaron pointed ahead as the wagon bucked and yawed and the suspension groaned.

"We're just over that hill."

All I wanted to do was get to the house and sort myself out -though from the way Aaron had rattled on in his eco-warrior Billy Graham voice, I half expected them to live in a wigwam.

EIGHTEEN.

The Mazda rolled from side to side, the suspension creaking like an old brigantine as the engine revs rose and fell. To my surprise, Aaron was actually driving the thing with considerable skill. It seemed we had at least another hour and a half of this still to go so much for 'just over that hill'.

We ploughed on through the mist, finally cresting the steep, rugged hill. The scene confronting us was a total contrast to the rough gra.s.sland we'd been travelling through. A valley lay below us, with high, rolling hills left and right, and as far as the eye could see the landscape was strewn with felled, decaying wood. The trunks nearest us were almost grey with age. It was as if somebody had tipped an enormous box of matchsticks all over a desert of rust coloured mud. The low mist within the valley made it eerier still. Then, at the far end of the valley, where the ground flattened out, maybe five or six Ks away, was lush green jungle. I couldn't work it out.

We started our descent and Aaron must have sensed my confusion.

"They just got fed up with this side of the hills!" he shouted above the wagon's creaks and groans.

"There wasn't enough hardwood to take, and it wasn't macho enough for the hombres to take these little things away. But hey, at least there are no farmers, they can't clear all this on their own. Besides, there's not enough water down here not that they could drink it if there was."

We reached the valley floor, following the track through the downed trees. It looked as if a tornado had torn through the valley then left it for dead. The morning sun was, trying its hardest to penetrate a thin layer of cloud. Somehow it seemed much worse than if the sun had been properly out; at least then it would have come from one direction. As it was, the sun's rays had hit the clouds and scattered. It was definitely time for the Jackie O look again. Aaron followed my lead and threw his on too.

We carried on through the tree graveyard until we were rescued by the lush canopy at the far end of the valley.

"Won't be long now," Aaron declared.

"Maybe forty-five, fifty minutes."

Twenty would have been better; I didn't think the wagon could take much more, and neither could my head. I thought it was going to explode.

We were back in secondary jungle. The trees were engulfed in vines reaching up into the canopy. All sorts of stuff was growing between them and above the track. It felt like we were driving through a long grey tunnel. I took off my Jackie Os and everything became a dazzling green.

Baby-G told me it was 7.37, which meant we'd been on the road for over four hours. My eyes were stinging and my head still pounding, but there wouldn't be any time for relaxing just yet. I could do all that on Sunday maybe, or whenever it was that I finally got to the safety of Maryland. First, I needed to concentrate on how I was going to carry out the hit. I needed to grip myself and get on with the job. But try as I might to think about what I'd seen during the CTR, I just couldn't concentrate.

Aaron had been spot on. Forty-five minutes later we emerged into a large clearing, most of it lying behind a building that was side on and directly in front of us, maybe two hundred metres away. It looked like the house that Jack built.

The clouds had evaporated, to reveal sun and blue sky.

"This is us." Aaron didn't sound too enthusiastic. He put his gla.s.ses back on, but there was no way I was wearing the Jackie Os again not if I was about to see their owner.

To my left, and facing the front of the house, was a hill with a steep gradient covered with more fallen trees and rotten stumps, with tufty gra.s.s growing between them. The rest of the clearing was rough, but fairly flat.

We followed the track towards the large building, which was more or less on one level. The main section was a one-storey, terra cotta-roofed villa, with dirty green plastered walls. There was a covered veranda out front, facing the high ground. Behind the main building, and attached to it, was a corrugated-iron extension maybe twice as big as the house itself and with a much higher roof.

On my right were row upon row of white plastic five-gallon tubs, hundreds of them, about two feet high and the same in diameter. Their lids were sealed, but sprays of different coloured plants of all shapes and sizes shot from a circular hole cut out of the middle of each. It looked like Aaron and Carrie were running the area's first garden-centre mega store I'd stepped on to the set of The Good Life, Panama-style.

Dotted around us were corrugated-iron outhouses, with piles of wooden barrels and boxes, and the occasional rotting wooden wheelbarrow. To my right, past the tubs, was a generator under a corrugated-iron roof with no side walls, and at least ten forty-five-gallon oil drums.

As we got closer I could make out down pipes leading from the gutters into green plastic water b.u.t.ts that ran at intervals the length of the building. Above the roof, supported on scaffolding, was a large blue plastic water tank; beneath it was an old metallic one, with all sorts of pipes coming out of it. A pair of satellite dishes were mounted nearby, one pointing west, one east. Maybe they liked to watch both Colombian and Panamanian TV. Despite the technology, this was definitely Planet Tree-hug; all I needed to complete the picture was a couple of milking cows named Yin and Yang.

Now that we were nearer the house, I could see the other pickup truck, parked the far side of the veranda. Aaron hit the Mazda's horn a few times, and looked worried as Carrie emerged from the veranda, putting on her wraparounds. She was dressed the same as when I'd met her, but had gelled her hair.

"Please, Nick not a word."

The wagon stopped and he jumped out as she stepped down from the veranda.

"Hi."

I got out, ready to greet, squinting to fight both the glare and my headache.

I took a few steps towards them, then stopped to give them some s.p.a.ce. But there weren't any greetings, kisses or touches, just a strained exchange.

Not thinking much, just feeling hot and bothered, I moved towards them.

I put on my nice-and-cheery-to-the-host voice.

"h.e.l.lo."

It wasn't gel that was holding back her hair; she'd just had a shower.

She noticed my hobble and ripped jeans.

"What happened? You OK?"

I didn't look at Aaron. Eyes give so much away.

"I walked into some sort of animal trap or something. I'm-' "You'd better come and get cleaned up. I've some porridge fixed."

That sounds wonderful." It sounded s.h.i.t.

She turned to walk back to the house, but Aaron had other ideas.

"You know what?

I'm going to clean the truck out there's been a fuel spillage in the back and, well, you know, I'd better clean it out."

Carrie turned.

"Oh, OK."

I followed her towards the house as Aaron's sun gla.s.sed eyes gave me one last look and nod before going back to the wagon.

We were just short of the veranda when she stopped and turned once more. As Aaron moved the Mazda over towards the tubs, I could see my bitten, lumpy face and scary sticking-up hair reflecting back at me in her slightly mirrored gla.s.ses. The lenses were too opaque for me to see anything of her eyes.

"Luce, our daughter, thinks you're part of aUK study group, and you're here for a few days to see how we work. OK?"

"Sure, that's not a problem." I was going to have to do my best to look like a tree-hugging academic. I wished I could see her eyes. I hated talking to mirrored gla.s.s.

"She knows nothing about why you're really here. Nor do we, come to that. She's asleep, you'll see her soon." She tapped her left lens and pointed at my swollen eye.

"Don't worry about that. It'll be fine in a few days."

NINETEEN.

I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open as we stepped across cracked, faded terra cotta tiles, past two dark wood Victorian rocking-chairs and an old rope hammock scattered with coffee- and dribble-stained pillows. The front door was open, and Carrie pulled open a mesh mozzie door with a creak of hinges. To the left, and set above a meshed window, was a wall light, its bowl full of dried insects, fatally attracted to its glow. I caught the screen before it sprang back, and followed her inside.

We were in near darkness after the blinding brilliance outside, and there was a strong smell of wood. It was like being in a garden shed. I stifled a yawn; my eyes were trying to close, but I had to fight them. This was virgin territory and I had to take note of every detail.

The room was large, with a high ceiling. Hefty tree trunks supporting the building were set into plastered walls, which had once been painted cream but were now scuffed and discoloured. It was furnished like a holiday let, basic stuff, a bit rough, and not a lot of it.

Carrie was heading straight to another door, painted a faded yellow, about ten metres dead ahead. I followed as she took off her gla.s.ses and let them fall around her neck. To our left were four armchairs built out of logs, covered with dirty cushions with flowery patterns that didn't match. The chairs were evenly arranged around a circular coffee table, which was made from a slice of dark wood more than a metre in diameter. Trained over the coffee table and chairs were two 1950s-style, free-standing electric fans with protective wire covers.

The chrome had seen better days, and it was a shame there was no ribbon hanging from the mesh to given them that authentic look.

The wall to the left had two more doors, also painted yellow and set into flaking brown frames. The furthest one was partly open and led into what I presumed was their bedroom. A large natural wood headboard held one end of a once-white mosquito net; the other was suspended from the ceiling. The bed was unmade and I saw purple sheets. Men's and women's clothes were thrown over a chair. The wooden b.u.t.t of a rifle hung on the wall to the right of the bed. I thought I'd keep it a little closer, living out here.

Further along, in the corner, was the kitchen area, with a small table and chairs. An array of different-patterned mugs hung from hooks in the wall.

On my right, the whole wall, as far as the door we were heading for, was covered by bookshelves. The only break was another window, also covered with protective mesh, which seemed to be the only other source of natural light.

I began to smell porridge. Steam rose from a large pot sitting on one of the kitchen units to the side of the cooker. Next to it lay a big bunch of bananas and a bowl of oranges.

Carrie disappeared through the door, and I followed her into the larger, corrugated-iron extension. The walls were lined with plyboard, and there was a rough concrete floor. Hanging down from the high ceiling on the end of steel rods were two old and very dirty days-of-the-Raj overhead fans, both stationary.

The room was a lot hotter than the one we'd just left, but lighter, with large sheets of clear corrugated plastic high up in the walls serving as windows.

The extension might be cheap and low-tech, but what it housed wasn't. Running the length of the wall in front of me and continuing after a right angle down the left-hand side was one continuous desk unit, formed out of trestle tables.

On it, and facing me, were two PCs with webcams attached to the top of the monitors; in front of each was a canvas director's chair, the green backrests well sagged with use. The screen of the PC on the right was displaying an image of the Miraflores lock. It must have been a webcam online, because the screen was just at the point of refreshing itself to show a cargo ship half-way out of one of the locks. Going by the bright reflection in the puddles on the gra.s.s, we weren't the only part of Panama with sun.

The PC to the left was closed down, and had a set of headphones with the mike attached hanging over the camera. Both machines were surrounded by paper and general office clutter, as was the underneath, with wires running everywhere and packs of office supplies. The desk against the wall to the left, facing me, housed a third PC, also with a webcam with headphones hanging, and was surrounded by schoolbooks. This had to be Luce's Land.

Carrie turned immediately to the right through the only other door and I followed. We entered what looked like a quartermaster's store, a lot smaller than the other two areas and a lot hotter. It smelt like the local deli. Rows of grey angle-iron shelving lined the walls left and right of me, turning the middle into a corridor. Stacked each side of us were all sorts, cartons of tinned food, hurricane lamps, torches, packs of batteries. On pallets on the floor were bags of rice, porridge oats and milk powder the size of coal sacks.

Enough supplies, in fact, to keep the Good Life going for a year. Laid out in the corridor was a US Army cot bed and a blanket, a dark green US Army lightweight still in its thin, clear plastic wrapping. That's for you."

She nodded towards a corrugated-iron door facing us as she quickly closed the one to the computer room behind us, plunging this area into near darkness.

"That'll take you outside. You'll be able to see better out there. I'll bring out the first-aid kit."

I walked past her, dropped my jacket on the cot, then turned back to see her climbing up the shelves.

"Could I see the imagery, please?"

She didn't look down at me.

"Sure."

I went outside. The sun was casting a shadow on this side of the building, which was good as my head was thumping big-time and being in the full glare wouldn't help at all. The crickets were still out doing their stuff; they're not great for headaches, either.

In front of me, two hundred metres away, lay the ma.s.sed ranks of white tubs with their greenery sticking out of the top and the sunlight bouncing off puddles around them as the generator chugged rhythmically. Aaron was in the distance, where the tubs met the track, a hose in his hands, flushing out the back of the wagon. A flock of large black and white birds lifted from the tree-line beyond the tubs and whooshed overhead just above the rooftop.

I slumped down on the concrete foundation that protruded along the wall, my back against one of the green water b.u.t.ts, and closed my eyes for a second, trying to relieve the pain. It wasn't happening so I opened the hole in my jeans to inspect the wound. The sweatshirt was still wet and muddy in the creases and knots, even after the clean-up in the drainage ditch. It had done the job of stopping the blood flow pretty well, though I couldn't be sure about infection.