NINE.

Tuesday 5 September I ease the pistol into my waistband, my wet palms sliding over the pistol grip.

If she's here I don't want her to see the weapon. Maybe she already knows what's happened ... I put my mouth against a little gap between the boxes.

"Kelly, you there? It's me, Nick. Don't be scared, I'm going to crawl towards you. You'll see my head in a minute and I want to see a big smile ..."

I move boxes and squeeze through the gap, inching towards the back wall.

"I'm going to put my head around the corner now, Kelly."

I take a deep breath and move my head around the back of the box, smiling away but ready for the worst as sweat pours down my face.

She is there, facing me, eyes wide with terror, sitting, curled up in a foetal position, rocking her body backwards and forwards, holding her hands over her ears, looking so vulnerable and helpless.

"h.e.l.lo."

She recognizes me, but just carries on rocking, staring at me with wide, wet, scared eyes.

"Mummy and Daddy can't come and get you just now, but you can come with me.

Daddy told me it would be OK. Are you going to come with me, Kelly? Are you?"

"Sir, sir?" I opened my eyes to see a very concerned flight attendant.

"You OK, sir? Can I get you some water or something?"

My sweaty palms slid on the armrests as I pushed myself upright in my seat. She poured from a litre bottle into a plastic gla.s.s.

"Could I take the bottle, please?"

It was handed to me with an anxious smile and I thanked her, taking it in a shaking, wet hand before getting it rapidly down my neck. I wiped my sweaty face with my spare hand. It had been part of the same bad dream I'd had on the Tristar. s.h.i.t, I must be really knackered. I peeled the sweatshirt from my skin and sorted myself out.

We had just hit cruising alt.i.tude on the four-and-a-bit-hour flight from Miami to Panama City, scheduled to land at about 11.40 a.m. local, which was the same time zone as the US east coast and five hours behind the UK. My window seat was next to Central America's most antisocial citizen, a mid-thirties Latino woman with big hair and lots of stiff lacquer to keep it that way. I doubted her skull could even touch the headrest, the stuff was on so thick. She was dressed in PVC, leather-look, spray-on jeans and a denim-style jacket patterned with black and silver tiger stripes, and stared at me in disgust, sucking her teeth, as I sorted myself out and downed the last of the water.

It was her turn to get her head down now as I read the tourist-guide pages in the inflight magazine. I always found them invaluable for getting an idea of wherever I was going on fast-b.a.l.l.s like this. Besides, it got me away from the other stuff in my head, and into thinking about the job, the mission, what I was here for. I'd tried to buy a proper guide book to Panama in Miami airport, but it seemed there wasn't much call for that sort of thing.

The magazine showed wonderful pictures of exotic birds and smiling Indian children in canoes, and stuff I already knew but wouldn't have been able to put so eloquently.

"Panama is the most southern of the Central American countries, making the long, narrow country the umbilical cord joining South and Central America. It is in the shape of an S bordered on the west by Costa Rica, on the east by Colombia, and has roughly the same land ma.s.s as Ireland."

It went on to say that most people, and that included myself until my days in Colombia, thought that Panama's land boundaries were north and south. That was wrong: the country runs west to east. Facts like that were important to me if I had to leave in a hurry. I wouldn't want to find myself heading for Colombia by mistake; out of the frying pan and into the fire. The only way to go was west, to Costa Rica, the land of cheap plastic surgery and diving holidays. I knew that, because I'd read it in the waiting room of the Moorings.

Tiger Lil had fallen asleep and was snoring big-time, twisting in her seat, and farting every minute or so. I unscrewed both the air-conditioning tubes above us and aimed them in her direction to try to divert the smell.

The three pages of b.u.mf and pictures went on to tell me that Panama was best known internationally for its ca.n.a.l, joining the Caribbean and the Pacific, and its 'vibrant banking services'. Then just a few more pictures of colourful flowers, with captions reminding us what a wonderful place it was and how lucky we all were to be flying there today. Not surprisingly, they didn't say anything about Operation Just Cause the US invasion in '89 to oust General Noriega, or the drug trafficking that makes the banking system so vibrant.

All the wonderful places listed to visit were exclusively west of Panama City, which was called in here 'the interior'. There was no mention at all about what lay to the east, especially the Darien Gap, the jungle area bordering Colombia. I knew that Darien Province is like a low-intensity war zone. Narco traffickers and guerrillas usually one and the same thing move in big groups between the two countries, armed to the teeth. There are even a few DMPs as the locals try to cash in on the industry, and Panamanian border police buzz around the sky in helicopter gunships, locked in a conflict they will never win.

Some adventurous types travel down there to bird-watch or hunt for rare orchids, and become hostages or dead after stumbling across things the traffickers would have preferred they hadn't.

I also knew that the narcos, especially PARC, had been getting more adventurous now that the US had stood down from Panama. They were making incursions further west into the country, and with only about 150 miles between the Colombian border and Panama City, I bet everyone was flapping big-time.

After flicking though the rest of the mag and not finding anything of interest, just glossy ads, I used it to fan my face as Tiger Lil farted and grunted once more.

Looking down at the endless blue of the Caribbean sea, I thought about yesterday's call to Josh. He'd been right to f.u.c.k me off; it was maybe the eighth or ninth time I'd done it to him. Kelly did need stability and an as normal-as-possible upbringing. That was precisely why she was there with him, and the not-calling-when-I-should, calling-when-I-shouldn't thing wasn't helping her at all.

I should have been there today to sign over my guardianship of Kelly completely to him, to change the present arrangement of joint responsibility. In her father's will, Josh and I had both been named as guardians, but I was the one who'd landed up with her. I couldn't even remember how that had come about, it just sort of had.

Food was being served and I tried to extract my tray from the armrest. It was proving difficult as Tiger Lil had overflowed her own s.p.a.ce. I shook her gently and she opened one blurry eye before turning over as if I was to blame.

My food turned up in its prepacked tray and made me think of Peter, getting all the doss-house boys rapping, "Krishna, yo! Krishna, yo! Krishna, yo! Hari rama."

I peeled back the foil to see a breakfast of pasta. Wielding a fork and moving my arms very carefully so as not to stir up my new friend, I decided to make a donation to those Krishna boys if ever I got back alive. The thought about Peter surprised me; it had popped up out of nowhere like a lot of other stuff lately. I wanted to get back in the comfort zone of work as quickly as possible, and cut away from that stuff before I found myself joining the Caravan Club.

As I threw pasta down my neck, I got thinking about the job and the little information Sundance had given me. The pa.s.s number for the meet with Aaron and Carrie Yanklewitz was thirteen. The system is easy and works well. Numbers are far better than confirmation statements because they're easier to remember. I once had a confirmation statement that went, The count is having kippers with your mother tonight and I was supposed to reply, "The kippers are restless." Who the f.u.c.k made that one up?

Pa.s.s numbers are also especially good for people who aren't trained in tradecraft or, like me, are c.r.a.p at remembering confirmation statements. For all I knew these people could be either. I didn't know if they were experienced operators who knew how to conduct themselves on the ground, just contacts who were going to help me out with bed and breakfast, or big-timers who couldn't keep their mouths shut.

I didn't like anyone else being involved in anything I did, but this time I had no choice. I didn't know where the target lived or the target's routine, and I didn't have a whole lot of time to find out.

After eating I sat back and pushed myself against the seat to relax my sore stomach muscles. Pain shot across my ribcage to give me further reminders of the strength and endurance of Caterpillar boots.

Trying to relieve the pain in my chest as I moved, I faced slowly away from Tiger Lil and lowered the window blind. Below me green jungle now stretched as far as the horizon, looking from this alt.i.tude like the world's biggest broccoli patch.

I pulled the blanket over my head to cut out the smell.

TEN.

The flight touched down ten minutes early, at eleven thirty local time. One of the first off, I followed the signs for baggage reclaim and Customs, past banks of chrome and brown leatherette seating.

After three hours of air-conditioning, the heat hit me like a wall. In my hand were the two forms we'd been given to fill in on the aircraft, one for Immigration, one for Customs. Mine said that Nick Hoff was staying at the Marriott there is always a Marriott.

Apart from the clothes I stood up in jeans, sweatshirt and bomber jacket the only items I had with me were my pa.s.sport and wallet containing five hundred US dollars. It had come from an ATM in Miami departures, courtesy of my new Royal Bank of Scotland Visa card in my c.r.a.p cover name.

Feeling like one of the Camden lot, I'd looked at myself in a toilet mirror: sleep creases all over my face and hair sticking up like the lead singer in an in die band.

I needn't have worried. Pa.s.sing through Immigration turned out to be a breeze, even without any luggage. I just handed over my declaration form to a bored, middle-aged man and he waved me through: I guessed they'd hardly be on the lookout for anyone trying to smuggle drugs into Central America.

I also shot through Customs, because all I had was nothing. I should really have bought a piece of hand luggage in Miami to look normal, but my head must have been elsewhere. Not that it mattered; the Panamanian Customs boys were obviously in the same place.

I headed towards the exit, fitting my new Leatherman on to my belt. I'd bought it in Miami to replace the one Sundance had nicked from me, and airport security had taken it off me and packed it into a Jiffy-bag in case I tried to use it to hijack the plane. I'd had to collect it from the luggage service desk when we landed.

The small arrivals area was hosting the noise-and-crush Olympics. Spanish voices hollered, Tannoys barked, babies cried, mobiles rang with every tune known to man. Steel barriers funnelled me deeper into the hall. I walked on, scanning the faces of waiting families and taxi drivers, some holding up name cards. Women outnumbered men, either very skinny or very overweight but not much in between.

Many held bunches of flowers, and screaming two-year-olds mountaineered all over them. Three or four deep against the barriers, they looked like fans at a Ricky Martin concert.

At last, amongst the surge of people, I spotted a square foot of white card with the name Tanklewitz' in capitals in marker pen. The long-haired man holding it looked different from the clean-cut CIA operator I'd been expecting. He was slim, about my height, maybe five ten, and probably in his mid- to late fifties.

He was dressed in khaki shorts and a matching photographer's waistcoat that looked as if it doubled as a han drag at the local garage. His salt-and-pepper hair was tied back in a ponytail, away from a tanned face that had a few days' silver growth. His face looked worn: life had obviously been chewing on it.

I walked straight past him to the end of the barrier, wanting to tune in to the place first, and watch this man for a while before I gave myself over to him. I carried on towards the gla.s.s wall and sliding exit doors about ten metres ahead.

Beyond them was a car park, where blinding sunlight bounced off scores of windscreens. The Flying Dogs hot dog and nacho stall to the left of the doors seemed as good a place as any to stop; I leant against the gla.s.s and watched my contact getting pushed and shoved in the melee.

Aaron1 presumed it was him was trying to check every new male arrival who emerged from Customs, whilst also checking every few seconds that the name card was the right way up before trying to thrust it above the crowd once more. The taxi drivers were old hands at this game and were able to stand their ground, but Aaron kept being buffeted by the surge of bodies. If this had been the January sales, he'd have come away with a pair of odd socks.

Now and again I caught sight of his tanned, hairless legs. They were muscular and scratched around the calves, and the soles of his feet were covered by old leather Jesus sandals, not the more usual sports ones. This wasn't holiday attire, that was for sure. He looked more like a farmhand or hippie throwback than any kind of doctor.

As I watched and tuned in, Tiger Lil burst into the hall, heaving an enormous squeaky-wheeled suitcase behind her. She screamed in unison with two equally large black women as they jumped all over each other, kissing and cuddling.

The arrivals area was packed with food and drink stalls, all producing their own smells that bounced off the low ceiling and had nowhere to escape to. Brightly dressed Latinos, blacks, whites and Chinese all clamoured to outdo each other in the loudest shout compet.i.tion. My guess was that Aaron would lose that as well as the keep-your-place-in-the-crowd contest. He was still bobbing around like a cork on a stormy sea.

The air-conditioning might have been working, but not well enough to handle the heat of so many bodies. The stone floor was wet with condensation, as if it had just been mopped, and the bottom foot or so of the gla.s.s wall was fogged with moisture. The heat was already getting to me. I felt sweat leak from my greasy skin and my eyes were stinging. Taking off my jacket, I leant against the gla.s.s once more, my clammy arm sticking to my sweatshirt.

A group of five stony-faced policemen hovered about in severely pressed khaki trousers and badge-festooned, short-sleeved shirts. They looked very macho with their hands resting on their holstered pistols and feet tapping in black patent leather shoes. Apart from that, the only things moving were their peaked hats as they checked out three tight-jeaned and high heeled Latino women pa.s.sing by Sitting on a bench to the left of the policemen was the only person here who wasn't sweating and out of control. A thirty something white woman, she looked like GI Jane, with short hair, green fatigue cargos and a baggy grey vest that came high up her neck. She still had her sungla.s.ses on and her hands were wrapped around a can of Pepsi.

Two things struck me as I looked around the hall. The first was that virtually everybody seemed to have a mobile on their belt or in their hand. The other was the men's shirts. Like the police uniforms, they were dramatically pressed and the arm crease went all the way over the shoulder and up to the collar. Maybe there was only one laundry in town.

After about a quarter of an hour the crowd was thinning as the last of the loved ones trickled through and the taxi fares got picked up. Calm descended, but probably only until the next flight arrived.

Aaron was now in my direct line of sight, standing with the remaining few still waiting at the barrier. Under his dirty waistcoat he had a faded blue T-shirt with some barely readable Spanish on the front. I watched as he held up his card to the last few pa.s.sengers, even leaning over the barrier, straining to read the flight numbers on their luggage tags.

It was now time to cut away from everything else going on in my head except work, the mission. I hated that word, it sounded far too Army, but I was going to use it to keep my head where it should be.

I had one last check around the hall for anything unusual, then realized that everything I saw fell into that category: the whole arrivals area looked like a dodgy-characters convention. I started my approach.

I must have been about three steps away from his back as he thrust his card under the nose of an American business suit pulling his bag on wheels behind him.

"Mr. Yanklewitz?"

He spun round, holding the card against his chest like a schoolboy in show-and tell He had bloodshot but very blue eyes, sunk into deep crow's feet.

I was supposed to let him initiate conversation with a story that involved a number, something like, "Oh, I hear you have ten bags with you?" to which I would say, "No, I have three', that sort of thing. But I really couldn't be bothered: I was hot, tired, and I wanted to get on.

"Seven."

"Oh, that would make me six then, I guess." He sounded a little disappointed. He'd probably been working on his story all morning. |l I smiled. There was an expectant pause: I was waiting for him to tell me what to do next.

"Er, OK, shall we go, then?" His accent was soft, educated American.

"Unless of course you want to-' I don't want to do anything, apart from go with you."

"OK. Please, this way."

We started towards the exit and I fell into step on his left. He folded the card as he went, moving faster than I'd have liked. I didn't want us looking unnatural but, then, what was I worrying about in this madhouse?

On the other side of the automatic exit doors was the service road for drop-offs and pick-ups. Beyond that was the car park, and in the distance, under a brilliant blue sky, were lush green rugged mountains. Out there was virgin ground to me, and unless I had no choice, I never liked entering the unknown with out having a look first.

"Where are we going?"

I was still checking out the car park. I didn't know if he was looking at me or not as he answered, in a very low voice, "That kinda depends on, er ... my wife is-' That's Carrie, right?"

'Yes, Carrie."

I'd forgotten to introduce myself.

"Do you know my name?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his head turn towards me, so I turned as well. His blue eyes seemed jumpy, and focused slightly to one side of mine.

"No, but if you don't want to tell me, that's fine. Whatever you feel safe with, whatever is best for you."

He didn't look scared, but was definitely ill-at-ease. Maybe he could smell the f.u.c.k-up value on me.

I stopped and held out my hand.

"Nick." Better to be friendly to the help rather than alienate them: you get better results that way. It was a small lesson the Yes Man could have done with taking on board.

There was an embarra.s.sed smile from him, displaying a not-too-good set of teeth, discoloured by too much coffee or tobacco. He held out his hand.

"Aaron. Pleased to meet you, Nick."

It was a very large hand with hard skin, but the handshake was gentle. Small scars covered its surface; he was no pen-pusher. His nails were dirty and jagged, and there was a dull gold wedding band and a multicoloured kids' Swatch on his left.

"Well, Aaron, as you can see, I haven't packed for a long stay. I'll just get my job done and be out of the way by Friday. I'll try not to be a pain in the a.r.s.e while I'm here. How does that sound?"

His embarra.s.sed grin gave me the feeling that it sounded good on both counts.

Still, he was generous in his reply.

"Hey, no problem. You did kinda throw me, you know. I wasn't expecting an English guy."

I smiled and leant forward to tell him a secret.

"Actually I'm American, it's a disguise."