Last Light Part 12

"Sorry, I didn't think about it. I should have brought a proper one, and a map."

I couldn't be a.r.s.ed to say it wasn't a problem. My head was banging big-time and I wanted to get on. Water cascaded down my face and off my nose and chin as I pressed the illumination b.u.t.ton on Baby-G.

"When's last light?"

"Six thirty, or thereabouts."

"It's just gone three thirty. Drive well away from here, all the way back to the city, whatever. Then come back to this exact spot at three a.m."

He nodded without even thinking about it.

"OK, park here, and wait ten minutes. Keep the pa.s.senger door unlocked and just sit in the car with the engine running." On a job, the engine must always be kept running: if you switch it off, sod's law dictates that it's not going to start up again.

"You also need to think of a story in case you're stopped. Say you're looking for some rare plant or something."

He stared vacantly through the windscreen.

"Yes, that's a good idea. In fact the barrigon tree is common in disturbed areas and along roads and-' "That's good, mate, good, whatever works, but make sure the story's in your head by the time you pick me up, so it sounds convincing."

"OK." He nodded sharply, still looking out of the window and thinking trees.

"If I'm not here by ten past three, drive off. Then come back round again and do exactly the same every hour until it gets light, OK?"

His eyes were still fixed on the windscreen as he nodded sharply.

"OK.".

Then, at first light, I want you to bin it. Stop doing the circuit. Come back for me at midday, but not here wait at the locks, by the trailer. Wait for an hour, OK?"

He nodded some more.

"Got any questions?"

He hadn't. I figured I'd given myself enough time, but if there was a c.o.c.k-up and I didn't make this RV, all was not lost. I could get to a river, clean all the jungle s.h.i.t off and, with luck, dry myself off if the sun was shining tomorrow morning. Then I wouldn't stand out too much once I got amongst the real people at the locks.

"Now, worst-case scenario, Aaron and this is very, very important." I was still shouting above the noise of the rain. Rivulets of water ran down my face and into my mouth. If I don't appear at the locks by midday tomorrow, then you'd better call your handler and explain exactly what I wanted you to do, all right?"

"Why's that?"

"Because I'll probably be dead."

There was a pause. He was obviously shaken: maybe he hadn't realized what game we were playing here; maybe he'd thought we really were here for the tree hugging.

"Have you got that?"

"Sure. I'll just tell them, word for word." He was still looking through the windscreen, frowning and nodding.

I tapped on his window and he turned his head.

"Hey, don't worry about it, mate.

I'm just planning for the worst. I'll see you here at three."

He smiled quite nervously. 'I'll tank up beforehand, yeah?"

I tapped once more on the gla.s.s.

"Good idea. See you later, mate."

Aaron drove off. The engine noise was drowned by the rain. I walked off the road into the murky, twilight world of the jungle. At once I was pushing against palm leaves and bushes. Rainwater that had been trapped on them sluiced all over me.

I moved in about five metres to get out of sight while I waited for Aaron to get well away from the area, and plonked down in the mud and leaf litter, resting my back against a tree-trunk as yet more thunder erupted across the sky. Water still found me as it cascaded from the canopy.

Pushing back my soaked hair with my hands I brought up my knees and rested my forehead against them as the rain found its way from the back of my neck and dripped away over my chin. Underneath my jacket, my left arm was being chewed. I gave the material a good rub and attempted to squeeze to death whatever had got up there, quietly welcoming myself to Aaron's 'cathedral of nature'. I should have looked out for some mozzie repellent in the Miami departures lounge instead of a guidebook.

My jeans were wet and heavy, hugging my legs as I stood up. I wasn't exactly dressed for crawling around in the jungle, but tough, I'd just have to get on with it. If I was going to hunt, I had to get my a.r.s.e over to where the ducks were, so I headed back to the loop. For all I knew it might have stopped raining out there by now. Inside the canopy you'd never know because the water still falls for ages as it makes its way down leaf by leaf.

I turned right on to the single-track metal road: it was pointless moving through the jungle from this distance. The downpour had eased a little, now only bouncing an inch or two off the tarmac, but it was still enough to mean that a vehicle wouldn't see me until it was right on top of me.

As I started to walk up the road I checked the ball compa.s.s. I was heading uphill and west, as we had been all the way from Clayton in the Mazda. I kept to one side so I could make a quick entry into cover, and didn't move too fast so I'd be able to hear any approaching vehicles above the rasping of my soaked jeans.

I still had no idea how I was going to do this job, but at least I was in an environment I understood. I wished Dr. Hughes could see me now: then she'd know there was something I was good at.

I stopped and scratched the skin at the base of my spine to discourage whatever was munching at it, then moved on up the road.

THIRTEEN.

For the best part of a mile of uphill slog I was deluged with rain and drenched in my own sweat, hair plastered to my face and clothes clinging to my body like long-lost friends.

At last, the rain subsided, and the sun emerged between the gaps in the clouds, burning on to my face and making me squint as it reflected off the mirror of wet tarmac. The Jackie Os went back on. I looked at the compa.s.s I was heading west with a touch of north in it and also checked my plastic bags. They'd done their job well: at least I had dry doc.u.ments.

Humidity oozed from the jungle. Birds began to call once more from high up in the canopy. One in particular stood out, sounding like a slowed-down heart-rate monitor. Other forms of wildlife rustled in the foliage as I walked past and, as ever, there was the blanket noise of crickets, cicadas, whatever they were called. They seemed to be everywhere, in every jungle, though I'd never seen one.

I wasn't fooled by the sunshine or the animals rustling in the foliage. I knew there was more rain to come. The dark clouds hadn't completely dispersed, and thunder still rumbled in the distance.

I rounded a gentle bend and a pair of iron gates came into view, blocking the road about four hundred metres ahead. They were set into a high, whitewashed wall that disappeared into the jungle on each side. Once I'd confirmed that I was still heading westish, it was time to get back into cover. I eased my way in, moving branches and fronds aside carefully rather than just crashing through. I didn't want to mark my entry point with top sign sign that is made above ground level and which in this case might be seen from the road. A large rubber leaf or a fern, for example, doesn't naturally expose its lighter underside; that only happens if it's disturbed by someone or something brushing past. The leaf will eventually turn back to its darker side so it can gather light, but to the trained eye in the meantime it's as good as dropping your business card. I had no idea if these people would be switched-on enough to notice such things as they drove past, but I wasn't going to leave that to chance.

Once under the canopy, I felt like I was in a pressure cooker; the humidity has nowhere to go, and it gives your lungs a serious work-out. Rainwater still fell in bursts as unseen birds took flight from the branches above.

Having moved maybe thirty metres in a direct line away from the road, I stopped to check the compa.s.s. My aim now was to head west again and see if I hit the perimeter wall. If I encountered nothing after an hour I'd stop, move back, and try again. It would be very easy to become 'geographically embarra.s.sed', as officers call it: in the jungle the golden rule is to trust your compa.s.s, no matter what your instincts are telling you. The wall of green was maybe seven metres away, and that was where I would focus my attention as I moved, to detect any hostiles and find the house.

As I moved off, I felt a tug on my sleeve and realized I'd encountered my first batch of wait-a-while. It's a thin, twine-like vine, studded with tiny barbs that dig into clothing and skin, much like a bramble. Every jungle I'd been in was infested with the stuff. Once it's caught you, the only way to get clear is to tear yourself free. If you try to extricate yourself barb by barb, you'll be there for ever.

I pushed on. I had to get to the house before last light so I could carry out a decent recce with some degree of visibility. Besides, I didn't want to be stuck in here once it was dark: I'd never make the morning RVs, and would then waste time waiting for midday, instead of preparing for the job I was here to do.

For the next half an hour or so I headed uphill and west, frequently untangling myself from batches of wait-a-while. At last I stopped and leant against a tree to catch my breath and check the compa.s.s. I didn't know what sort of tree it was; for some strange reason I could recognize a mahogany, and this wasn't one.

My hands were covered with small cuts and scratches now, which hurt like wasp stings.

I moved off once more, thinking about the CTR. Under ideal conditions, I'd take time to find out the target's routine, so that I could take him on in a killing ground of my choosing; that way, I had the advantage. But I didn't have time, and the only thing I'd learnt from Aaron about Michael's movements was that he would be going in to college at some point this week.

It's easy enough to kill someone; the hard bit is getting away with it. I needed to find the easiest way of dropping him so there was as little risk to me as possible. I could get all Rambo'd up and storm the place, but that wasn't part of my plan, not yet anyway.

I saw open s.p.a.ce about six or seven metres ahead, just beyond the wall of green, flooded with brilliant sunlight and awash with mud. I moved slowly back into the jungle until it disappeared from sight, and stood against a tree.

Standing still and doing nothing but take deep breaths and wipe the sweat from my face, I started to hear the world above me once more.

I was hot, sticky, out of breath, and gagging for a drink, but I found myself captivated by the amazing sound of a howler monkey in the treetops, busy living up to its name. Then I slapped my face yet again to zap whatever it was that had landed to say h.e.l.lo.

Moisture seeped out of my leather belt as I squeezed it open, tucked in my sweatshirt and generally sorted myself out. I knew that my jeans would soon be hanging off my a.r.s.e again, but it didn't matter, this just made me feel better.

I felt the first of what I knew was going to be a whole colony of itchy b.u.mps on my neck, and quite a big one coming up on my left eyelid.

My basic plan for the recce was to simulate one of those electric toys that motor around the floor until they b.u.mp into a wall, then rebound, turn round, move off, turn round again and bounce back on to the wall somewhere else.

A lot of questions needed answering. Was there physical security, and if so, were they young or old? Did they look switched on and/or armed? If so, what with? If there was technical security, where were the devices, and were they powered up?

The best way of finding answers was just to observe the target for as long as possible. Some questions can be answered on site, but many only pop up once you're tucked up with a cup of cocoa and trying to come up with a plan. The longer I stayed there, the more information would sink into my unconscious for me to drag out later if I needed it.

The big question would I have to do a Rambo? remained, but I'd answer that on target. My mind drifted back to the Yes Man and Sundance, and I knew I might have to if there was no other way. But then I cut away from that stuff; what I needed to do now was get my a.r.s.e up to that mud a few metres away and have a look at what was out there before I got lost inside my head.

Concentrating on the green wall, I moved carefully forward.

I saw the sunlight reflecting off the puddles maybe six metres in front of me and dropped slowly on to my stomach in the mud and rotting leaves. Stretching out my arms, I put pressure on my elbows and pushed myself forward on the tips of my toes, lifting my body just clear of the jungle floor, sliding about six inches at a time, trying to avoid crushing dead, pale yellow palm leaves as I moved. They always make a brittle, crunching noise, even when they're wet.

It felt like I was back in Colombia, closing in on the DMP to carry out a CTR so an attack could be planned with the information we brought back. I never thought that I'd still be doing this s.h.i.t nearly ten years later.

I stopped every couple of bounds, lifted my head from the dirt, looked and listened, while slowly pulling out thorns from my hands and neck as the mozzies got busy again. I was starting to have second thoughts about my little love affair with the jungle. I realized I only liked it when I was standing up.

My alligator impression was hard work in this humidity, and I was starting to pant, with every sound magnified tenfold so close to the ground; even the leaves seemed to crackle more than they normally would. The sharp pain in my ribs didn't help much, but I knew all the discomfort would disappear once I was on top of the target house.

I inched closer to the wall of sunlight as leaf litter and other s.h.i.t from the jungle floor worked its way inside my jacket sleeves and down the front of my sweatshirt. The plastic bag rustled gently inside my jacket. Now that my jeans had worked their way back down my a.r.s.e, bits of twig and broken leaf were also finding their way on to my stomach. I was not having a good day out.

Another bound, then I stopped, looked and listened. Slowly wiping away the sweat that was running into my eyes and wishing that they weren't so tired, I squashed some airborne monster that was munching away at my cheek. I still couldn't see anything in front of me apart from sunlight and mud, and knew I was so low down that I'd have to wait until I was right up on the canopy's edge to get a good view of whatever was out there.

The first thing I spotted of any significance was wire fencing along the edge of the treeline. I moved carefully towards the most p.r.i.c.kly and uninviting bush at the edge of the clearing and wormed my way into it, cutting my hands on the barbs that covered its branches. They were so sharp that the pain of being cut wasn't instant; it came a few seconds later, like getting sliced with a Stanley knife.

Lying on my stomach, I rested my chin on my hands, looked up and listened, trying to take in every detail. As soon as I'd stopped moving, the mozzies formed into stacks above me, like 747s waiting to land at Heathrow.

I found myself looking through a four-inch chain-link fence, designed more to keep out wildlife than humans. The house was obviously very new, and by the look of things Charlie Chan had been so keen to move in he hadn't waited for proper security.

The open s.p.a.ce in front of me was a gently undulating plateau covering maybe twenty acres. Tree stumps stuck out here and there like rotten teeth, waiting to be dragged out or blasted before a lawn was laid. I couldn't see any oceans from where I lay, just trees and sky. Caterpillar-tracked plant was scattered about the area, lying idle, but business at Choi and Co. was obviously booming in every other respect, now that the US had gone. The house looked more like a luxury hotel than a family hideaway. The main building was sited no more than three hundred metres to my left. I wasn't face-on to the target, along the line of the gate and wall; I must have clipped a corner because I'd come on to the right-hand perimeter. I had a clear view of the front and right-hand elevation. It was a ma.s.sive, three floor Spanish-style villa with brilliant whitewashed walls, wrought-iron balconies and a pristine terra cotta roof. Standing proud of this was a belvedere tower, constructed completely of gla.s.s. That was where you'd see the oceans from.

Other pitched roofs at different heights radiated out in all directions from the main building, covering a network of verandas and archways. A swimming pool sparkled to the right of the main house, surrounded by a raised patio; distressed, Roman-style stone pillars were dotted about, to give it that Gladiator look. The only things missing were a few statues of sixteenth-century Spaniards with swords and baggy trousers.

A set of four tennis courts stood behind a line of fencing. Nearby, three large satellite dishes were set into the ground. Maybe Charlie liked to watch American football, or check the Nasdaq to see how his money-laundering activities were shaping up.

Including the Lexus, there were six shiny SUVs and pickups parked outside a large turning circle that bordered a very ornate stone fountain, then led down to the front gates, maybe three hundred metres to my left. I looked back at the vehicles. One in particular had caught my eye. A dark blue CMC with blacked-out windows.

Most impressively, there was a white and yellow Jet Ranger helicopter using some of the driveway in front of the house as a pad. Just the thing to beat the morning commute.

I lay still and watched, but there was no movement, nothing going on. I opened my jaw a little to close off my swallowing sounds, trying to pick up any noise from the house, but I. was too far away and they were too sensible: they kept indoors in the conditioned air.

My head was getting covered with lumps as I watched thousands of large dark red ants start to trundle past just inches from my nose, carrying sc.r.a.ps of leaf sometimes twice their own size. The leading few hundred were blazing the path maybe thirty abreast, the rest behind so closely packed I could hear them rustling.

I got back to looking at the target and became aware of a pretty unpleasant smell. It didn't take long to work out that it was me. I was wet, covered in mud, bits of twig and brush, itching all over and desperate to rub at the mozzie bites. I was sure I could feel something new munching at the small of my exposed back. I just had to let it munch: the only things I could risk moving were my eyes. Maybe I'd get back to loving the jungle tomorrow, but at the moment I wanted a divorce. After nearly twenty years of this stuff I really did need to get a life.

There was certainly no need to become an electric toy and do a 360-degree tour of the target: I could see everything I needed from here. Getting close to the house in daylight would be impossible there was far too much open ground to cover. It might be just as difficult at night; I didn't yet know if they had any night-viewing facility, or closed-circuit TV with white light or an IR capability covering the area, so I had to a.s.sume they did.

My problems didn't end there. Even if I did get to the house, where would I find Michael? Only Errol Flynn can walk into the front hall and pop behind a big curtain while squads of armed guards march past.

Swapping my hands over and adjusting the position of my chin, I started to take in the scene in front of me. I had to squeeze my gritty eyes shut constantly, then refocus. The ant columns were doing just fine as an enormous black b.u.t.terfly landed an inch or two from my nose. Again I was back in Colombia.

Anything that was colourful and flew, we caught for Bernard. He was over six foot four, weighed nineteen stone, and looked as if he ate babies for breakfast.

He sort of let everyone down by collecting b.u.t.terflies and moths for his mother instead. We would come back into base camp from a patrol and the fridge would be filled with sealed jars full of things with wings instead of cold drinks and Marmite. But no one was ever going to say anything to his face in case he decided to pin us to the wall instead.

In the distance there was the slow, low rumble of thunder as the heat haze shimmered over the open ground in front of me, and steam rose gently from the mud.

It would have been wonderful to get out there and stretch out in the sun, away from this world of gloom and mozzies. The shrill buzzing as they attacked the side of my head sounded like a demonic dentist's drill and I had definitely been bitten by something psychopathic on my lower back.

There was movement from the house.

Two white, short-sleeved shirts and ties came out of the main door with a man in a shocking pink Hawaiian shirt who climbed into the CMC. My friend the Pizza Man. The other two got into one of the pickups and a fourth, running from the main door, jumped on to the back. Standing up, leaning forward against the cab, he looked like he was leading a wagon train as the pickup rounded the fountain and headed for the gates with the CMC following. He wasn't dressed as smartly as the other two: he was in black wellies and carried a wide-brimmed straw hat and a bundle of something or other under his arm.

Both wagons stopped for maybe thirty seconds as the gates swung open, then drove out of sight as they closed again behind them.

A gust of wind made the trees sway at the edge of the canopy. It wouldn't be long before the next batch of rain was heading this way. I'd have to get going if I wanted to be out of the jungle by last light. I started to shift backwards on my elbows and toes, got on to my hands and knees for a while, and finally to my feet once I was safely behind the wall of green. I gave myself a frenzied scratch and shake, tucked everything back in, ran my fingers through my hair and rubbed my back against a tree. A rash of some sort was developing at the base of my spine and the temptation to scratch it more was unbearable. My face probably looked like Darth Maul's by now. My left eyelid had swollen up big-time, and was starting to close.

Baby-G told me it was just after five: maybe an hour and a bit before last light, as it gets dark under the canopy before it does outside. I was gagging for a drink but I'd have to wait until it rained again.

My plan now was to move south towards the road, turn right and parallel it under the canopy until I hit the edge of the cleared area again nearer the gate, then sit and watch the target under cover of darkness. That way, as soon as I'd finished, I could jump on to the tarmac to meet Aaron down at the loop at three a.m. instead of being stuck in here for the night.

I headed off through the thick wall of humidity. Wet tarmac and a dark, moody sky soon came into sight through the foliage, just as the BUBs has ha-up beetles) started to go for it all around me with their high-pitched screams.

They sounded like crickets with megaphones. They were telling me that G.o.d was about to switch off the light in here and go to bed.

A distant rumble of thunder resonated across the treetops, and then there was silence, as if the jungle was holding its breath. Thirty seconds later, I felt the first splashes of rain. The noise of it hitting the leaves even drowned out the BUBs, then the thunder roared directly overhead. Another thirty seconds and the water had worked its way down from the canopy and back on to my head and shoulders.

I turned right and picked my way towards the fence line, paralleling the road about seven or eight metres in. Mentally I was preparing myself for a miserable few hours in the dark. However, it was better to kill time watching the target while I waited for Aaron than doing nothing down at the loop. Time in reconnaissance is seldom wasted. And at least I knew there was no need to crawl into position: the house was too far away for them to spot me.

I moved forward, trying to make a record in my head of everything I'd seen so far at the target. Every twenty paces or so I stopped to check the compa.s.s as thunder detonated high above the canopy and rain beat a tattoo on the leaves and the top of my head. I was displaying a builder's crack where my jeans should have been, but it didn't matter, I'd sort myself out again later on. I started to slip and slide on the mud beneath the leaf litter. I just wanted to get up to the fence before it got dark.