He dropped like a stone, disappearing into the foliage without a sound.

The other two were still firing into shadows as they moved down the track.

A cordite mist hung about the clearing as I let off another magazine at them.

Steam oozed out of the cooling vents on the mud-covered stock and around my left hand. s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t... I wanted to create noise, I wanted to create confusion, I wanted to get everyone sparked up, not lose them in the jungle. But I wasn't going to chase them. It was pointless, there wasn't enough time.

I changed mags and crossed the clearing towards Pizza Man, weapon in the shoulder, moving fast but cautiously. The others might still come back, and I still couldn't see him.

He was alive, panting for breath and holding his chest, eyes open but helpless.

Blood flowed gently between his fingers.

I tossed his weapon to one side and kicked him.

"Close it down! Close it down!"

He just lay there, no reaction.

I grabbed his forearm and dragged him into the clearing, and it was then that I saw the exit wound gaping in his back.

His eyes were shut tight, taking the pain of the round and movement. I dropped his arm as he mumbled, almost smiling, "We're coming back, a.s.shole ..."

I leant over him, b.u.t.t in the shoulder, and thrust the muzzle into his face.

"Stop it! f.u.c.king stop it!"

He just smiled beneath the pressure of the metal stuck in his skin. The weapon moved as he coughed up blood over the end of the barrel.

"Or what?" He coughed up some more.

He was right. I kicked him out of frustration as I ran to the table, checking the track for the others, checking Baby-G.

Just three minutes to go.

The left-hand VDU was full of Russian symbols, the other was a radar screen with a hazy green background peppered with white dots as its sweeping arm moved clockwise.

The laptop displayed the webcam image of the locks. A cable led from it, along the ground and up a tree, where a small satellite dish was clamped to a branch.

I looked back at the laptop. I could see the band playing, girls dancing and crowds in the seats and more standing against the barriers. The Ocaso was in pride of place on the screen. Pa.s.sengers thronged the decks, clutching cameras and handy-cams.

Scrambling round to the back of the table, I fell to my knees and started pulling out the ma.s.s of wires and thick cables that led from the back of the console and out towards the sea. Some were just slotted in, some had a bracket over them, some were screwed into their sockets.

I tried desperately to disconnect them two at a time, almost hyperventilating in frustration as my wet, muddy hands slid about the plastic and metal. I flapped like a child in a blind panic, yelling at myself, "Come on! Come on! Come on!"

I looked over at the dump, wishing I had a gollock. But even if I found one and started slashing cables, chances were I'd electrocute myself. I couldn't tell which were transmission and which were power.

Curled up in pain, Pizza Man was watching me, his shirt soaked with blood and covered with mud and leaf litter.

Fighting another connection, I spun the laptop round just as the image started to refresh from the top.

A high-pitched whine started within the canopy, winding up like a Harrier jump jet before take-off.

Within seconds the noise surrounded me.

Four cables to go. The more I tried to pull or unscrew them, the more I lost it.

I gave one big tug in frustration and despair. The console slid off the table and landed in the mud. The high-pitched whine became a roar as the rocket engines kicked in.

In almost the same instant there was a deafening, rumbling boom, and the ground began to shake under my feet. I stayed on my knees, looking up into the canopy as its inhabitants took off in a panic.

I didn't see vapour, I didn't see anything, I just felt the sickening rumble as the missile left its platform and surged out of the jungle. The treetops shook and debris rained down around me.

I didn't know what to feel as I released my grip on the cables and looked over at the laptop, mesmerized, catching the last glimpse of the ship as the image faded.

I could hear Pizza Man, still curled up in the leaf litter like a child, panting, trying to get oxygen. When I looked at him, he was smiling. I was sure he was trying to laugh.

The screen was blank and there was nothing I could do but wait, wondering if I'd be able to hear the explosion, or if the sound would get swallowed up by the jungle and distance.

My chest heaved up and down as I tried to take deep breaths, swallowing hard, trying to relieve my dry throat, just waiting for the screen to refresh or stay blank for ever as the camera would surely be taken out as well.

I was right: he was laughing, enjoying the moment.

The first strip at the top started to show and I could hardly contain the terrible feeling of expectation.

Slowly, lazily, the image unfolded and I braced myself for the scene of carnage, trying to convince myself that the camera being intact was a good sign, then thinking I didn't know how far the camera was from the locks, so maybe not.

The picture refreshed itself. The ship was intact, everything was intact. The dancing girls were throwing their batons in the air and pa.s.sengers were waving at the crowd on sh.o.r.e. What the f.u.c.k had happened? It should have made it there by now: it travelled at two and a half times the speed of sound.

I didn't trust what I was seeing. Maybe it was the image that had been captured just before the explosion, and I was going to wait for the next cycle.

I'd never felt so exhausted, and all other thoughts had left my mind. I didn't even care about a possible threat from the other four, though if they'd had any sense they'd already be dragging the Gemini into the water.

The smell of sulphur hit me as the exhaust seeped through the jungle, creating a low, smoky mist around the area and making it look like G.o.d lived here as the vapour was exposed to the brilliant shafts of light.

Pizza Man made gurgling sounds, coughing up more blood.

The top of the image began to unfold and this time I saw smoke. I knew it. I jumped to my feet and hovered over the laptop. Sweat dropped off my nose and chin and on to the screen. My sweatshirt pulled down on me with the weight of mud as I gulped in air to calm my heart rate.

Still the only thing I could see was smoke as the picture rolled on down.

It hadn't worked.

I sat back in the mud, more exhausted than I'd ever been in my life.

Then, as the image filled the screen, I saw that the ship was still, there.

The smoke was coming from its funnels. The crowds were still cheering.

The sounds of the jungle returned. Birds screeched above me as they settled back in their roosts. I sat there, almost bonding with the mud, as the seconds ticked by. And then, starting as quiet as a whisper but increasing very rapidly, came the distinctive wap wap wap of much bigger birds.

The sound got louder and then came the rapid rattle of rotors as a Huey zoomed straight over me. Its dark blue underbelly flashed across the treetops, and I could hear others circling as its downwash shook the canopy and vegetation rained down about me.

Time to switch on.

I jumped to my feet and grabbed a jerry-can, dousing the console with fuel, making sure it poured into the cooling vents at the back, then I did the same to the laptop. I picked up two rucksacks and threw them over a shoulder, hoping that whatever made them weigh so much was stuff I could use in the jungle.

Finally grabbing the weapon, I moved to Pizza Man, manhandling him over on to his back. There was no resistance. His legs started to tremble as he looked at me with a satisfied smile. The small entry wound high in his chest oozed blood each time he took a breath.

"It didn't work," I shouted.

"It didn't make contact, you f.u.c.ked up."

He didn't believe me and hung on to the smile, eyes closed, coughing more blood.

I reached into his pocket and pulled out the Zippo.

The heli had returned and was over by the river, flying low and slow. Others were now closer. There were long, sustained bursts of automatic fire. They had found the escaping Gemini.

I knew he could hear me. That's Charlie's people. They'll be here soon."

His eyes flickered open and he fought to keep the smile through the pain.

"Believe me, you f.u.c.ked up, it didn't work. Let's hope they keep you alive for Charlie. I bet you two have a lot to talk about."

In truth, I didn't have a clue what they'd do. I just wanted to kill that smile.

"I hear he had his own brother-in-law crucified. Just think what he's going to do to you ..."

As I heard heli noise almost directly overhead I ran over to the console and flicked the lighter. The fuel ignited instantly. They mustn't fall into Charlie's hands; then all he would need was another missile and he would be back in business.

I turned and ran from the flames. Pa.s.sing Pizza Man, I couldn't resist giving him a taste of the kind of kicking I'd got in Kennington.

He did the same as I had, just curled up and took it. I heard shouts from the track. Charlie's boys were here.

I flicked the Zippo again and tossed it on to the dump.

As the roar of the Hueys became almost deafening, I shouldered the rucksacks, picked up the weapon, and ran into the jungle as fast as the mud on my boots would let me.

FORTY-TWO.

Friday 15 September Pulling down the visor to shade me from the sun, I watched through the dirty windscreen as pa.s.senger after pa.s.senger, laden with oversized cases, was dropped off outside Departures. I felt a twinge of pain in my calf and adjusted myself in the seat to stretch my damaged leg as the roar of jet engines followed an aircraft into the clear blue sky.

There had been enough anti-surveillance drills en route to the airport to throw off Superman, but still I sank into the seat and watched the vehicles that came and went, trying to remember if I had seen any of them or their drivers earlier.

The dash digital said it was nearly three o'clock, so I turned the ignition key to power up the radio, scanning the AM channels for news even before the antenna had fully risen. A stern American female voice was soon informing me that there were unconfirmed reports that PARC were behind the failed missile attack, which appeared to have been aimed at shipping in the Panama ca.n.a.l. It was sort of old news now and low down the running order, but it seemed that after it launched, fishermen saw the missile fly out of control before falling into the bay less than half a mile from the sh.o.r.e. The US had already reestablished a presence in the republic as they were now trying to fish out the missile and set up de fences to stop any such further terrorist attacks.

The polished voice continued, "With approximately twelve thousand armed combatants, PARC is Colombia's oldest, largest, most capable and best equipped insurgency. It was originally the military wing of the Colombian Communist Party, and is organized along military lines. PARC has been anti-US since its inception in 1964. President Clinton said today that Plan Colombia, the one point three billion-' I flicked it back on to the FM Christian channel and hit the off switch before cutting the ignition again. The antenna retracted with a quiet electric buzz. It was the first bit of news I'd heard about the incident. I had done my best to avoid all media these past six days, but hadn't been able to resist any longer the temptation to find out what had happened.

The injury still hurt. Pulling up one leg of my cheap and baggy jeans, I inspected the clean dressing on my calf and had a little scratch at the skin above and below it as a jet thundered just above the car park on finals.

It had taken three long, wet and hot days to walk out of the jungle, clean myself up, and hitch a ride into Panama City. The rucksacks had contained no food, so it was back to jungle survival skills and digging out roots on the move. But at least I could lie on the rucksacks and keep out of the mud, and although they didn't fit very well, the spare clothes helped keep the mozzies off my head and hands at night.

Once I'd reached the city, I dried out the two hundred odd dollars I'd lifted from the guys in the house in the sun and the blood flaked off them like thin scabs. I bought clothes and the dirtiest room in the old quarter that didn't care as long as I paid cash.

Up until Tuesday, four days ago, my credit card still hadn't been cancelled, so it looked as if things were still OK with the Yes Man. After I'd cleaned myself up, I went into a bank and took out the max I could on it, $12,150, at some ripoff exchange rate, before using my ticket to Miami. From there I took a train to Baltimore, Maryland. It had taken two days on four trains, never buying a ticket for more than a hundred dollars so as not to arouse suspicion. After all, who pays cash for any journey costing hundreds? Only people who don't want a record of their movements, people like me. That's why the purchase of airline tickets for cash is always registered. I hadn't minded the Yes Man knowing I was out of Panama as he tracked me to Miami, but that was all I'd wanted him to know.

But now, three days later, who knew? Sundance and Trainers might already be sightseeing in Washington, even phoning that half-sister to tell her that once they'd finished off some business they'd come to New York for a visit.

I heard the door handle go and Josh was at the window of his black, doublecabbed Dodge gas-guzzler. One hand pulled open the driver's door, the other cradled a Starbucks and a can of c.o.ke.

I took the coffee as he climbed into the driver's seat, and muttered, Thanks', as I placed the paper cup in the centre console holder. My fingernails and prints were still ingrained with jungle dirt; they looked like I'd been washing my hands in grease. It would take a few more days yet to wash out after my holiday from hygiene.

Josh's eyes stayed on the entrance to the long-term multi-storey car park, the other side of our short-term one. A line of vehicles was waiting to take a ticket and for the barrier to raise.

"Still thirty minutes to push until we're due," he said.

"We'll drink them here."

I nodded, and pulled back on the ring pull as he tested the hot brew. Anything he said was OK by me today. He had picked me up at the station, driven me about for the last two hours, and had listened to what I was proposing. And now here we were, at Baltimore International airport, where I should have arrived from Charles de Gaulle in the first place, and he had even bought me a c.o.ke.

He still looked the same, shiny brown bald head, still hitting the weights, gold-rimmed gla.s.ses that somehow made him look more menacing than intellectual.

From my side I couldn't see the torn sponge scar on his face.

The Starbucks was still a bit too hot for him so he nursed it in his hands.

After a while he turned towards me. I knew he hated me: he couldn't hide it from his face, or the way he talked to me. I would have felt the same, in his shoes.

There'll be rules," he said. 'You hear what I'm saying?"

Another jet came down over the wagon and he shouted over the roar as he pointed every other word at me.

"You are first going to sort out this s.h.i.t you've got us all in, man. I don't care what it's about or what you have to do just finish it. Then, and only then, you call me. Only then we talk. We don't deserve this s.h.i.t. It's a grim deal, man."

I nodded. He was right.

Then, only when that's done, this is how it's going to be like a divorced couple, a couple that do the right thing by their kids. You f.u.c.k that up, you f.u.c.k yourself up. It's the only way it's going to work. You hearing me? It's the last chance you're ever getting."

I nodded, feeling relieved.

We sat there and drank, both of us checking the vehicles that were trying to find a s.p.a.ce.