He gazed out again at the mountains and had a tree-hugging moment.
I could only see red and white communication masts the size of the Eiffel Tower that seemed to have been positioned on every fourth peak.
'But you know what, Nick, we're losing it...'
Buildings started to come into view on both sides of the road.
They ranged from tin shacks with rotting rubbish piled up outside and the odd mangy dog picking at the waste, to neat lines of not-quite-finished brand new houses. Each was about the size of a small garage, with a flat red tin roof over whitewashed breeze blocks. The construction workers were stretched out in the shade, hiding from the midday sun.
Ahead, in the far distance, I began to make out a high-rise skyline that looked like a mini Manhattan something else I hadn't been expecting.
I tried to get off the subject in case he turned into the Green version of Billy Graham. I didn't like the idea of losing trees to concrete, or anything else for that matter, but I didn't have enough commitment even to listen, let alone do anything about it. That was why people like him were needed, I supposed.
'Does Carrie lecture too?'
He shook his head slowly as he changed lanes to let a truck laden with bottled water scream past.
'No, we have a small research deal from the university. That's why I still have to lecture. We're not the Smithsonian Institute, you know. I wish we were, sure do wish we were.'
He wanted to get off the subject.
'You heard of PARC? The Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias Colombianas?'
I nodded and didn't mind talking about anything that let him feel at ease, apart from tree-hugging.
'I hear they're crossing into Panama quite a lot now, with SOUTH COM gone.'
'Sure are. These are worrying times. It's not just the ecological problems.
Panama couldn't handle PARC if they came in force. They're just too strong.'
He told me that the bombings, murders, kidnappings, extortion and hijackings had always gone on. But lately, now that the US had withdrawn, they'd been getting more adventurous. A month before the last US military left Panama completely, they'd even struck in the city. They'd hijacked two helicopters from an air base in the Zone, and flown them back home. Three weeks later, six or seven hundred PARC attacked a Colombian naval base near the Panamanian border, using the helicopters as fire support platforms.
There was a pause and I could see his face screw up as he worked out what he wanted to say.
'Nick ...' He paused again. Something was bugging him.
'Nick, I want you to know, I'm not a spy, I'm not a revolutionary. I'm just a guy who wants to carry out his work and live here peacefully. That's all.'
ELEVEN
I nodded.
'Like I said, I'll be out of here by Friday and try not to be a major pain in the arse.' It was somehow good to know that someone else was unhappy with the situation.
He sort of smiled with me as we hit a causeway that cut across towards the city, about 150 metres from the land. It reminded me of one of the road links connecting the Florida Keys.
We passed a few rusty wriggly-tin shanty shacks built around concrete sewage outlets discharging into the sea. Directly ahead, the tall, slim tower blocks reared into the sky, their mirrored and coloured glass glinting confidently in the sun.
Paying another Balboa to exit the causeway, we hit a wide boulevard with a tree lined and manicured-grass meridian. Set into the kerbs were large storm drains to take the tropical weather. The road was packed with manic cars, trucks, buses and taxis. Everyone was driving as if they had just stolen the things. The air was filled with the smell of exhaust fumes and the sound of revving traffic and horns being leant on. A helicopter flew low and fast somewhere above us. Aaron still had to shout to make himself heard, even at this lower speed. He jerked his head at mini Manhattan.
'Where the money is.'
It looked like it. A lot of well-known banks from Europe and the USA, as well as quite a few dodgy-sounding ones, had gleaming glass towers with their name stuck all over them. It was a dressy area: men walking the pavements were dressed smartly in trousers, pressed shirts with creases up to the collar, and ties. The women wore businesslike skirts and blouses.
Aaron waved his hand out of the window as he avoided a beer delivery truck who wanted to be exactly where we were.
'Panama is trying to be the new Singapore,' he said, taking his eyes off the traffic, which worried me a bit.
'You know, offshore banking, that kind of stuff.'
As we passed trendy bars, Japanese restaurants, designer clothes shops and a Porsche showroom, I smiled.
'I've read it's already pretty vibrant.'
He tried to avoid a horn-blowing pickup full of swaying rubber plants.
'You could say that there's a lot of drug money being rinsed here. They say the whole drug thing is worth more than ninety billion US a year that's like twenty billion more than the revenues of Microsoft, Kellogg's and McDonald's put together.'
He braked sharply as a scooter cut in front of us. I put out my arms to break the jolt and felt the hot plastic of the dashboard on my hands, as a woman with a small child on the pillion diced with death. They were both protected only by cycle helmets and swimming goggles as she squeezed between us and a black Merc so she could turn off the main drag. Obviously an everyday thing: Aaron just carried on talking.
'There's a big slice of that coming through here. Some of these banks, hey, they just say, 'Bring it on.' Real crooks wear pinstripe, right?' He smiled ruefully.
'Those traffickers are now the most influential special-interest group in the world. Did you know that?'
I shook my head. No, I didn't know that. When I was in the jungle fighting them, it was the last thing I needed to know. I also didn't know if I was going to get out of this Mazda alive. If there were any driving instructors in Panama, they obviously went hungry.
The traffic slowed a little then stopped completely, but the horns kept going.
Green-fatigued policemen stood outside a department store in high-leg boots and black body armour. The mirrored sunglasses under the peaks of their baseball caps made them look like Israeli soldiers, and all the more menacing for it.
Hanging round their necks were HK MP5s, and they wore low-slung leg holsters.
The Parkerization on the 9mm machine-guns had worn away with age, exposing the glinting steel underneath.
The traffic un choked and we started to move. The faces sticking out of the bus ahead of us got a grandstand view of my Jackie Os and a few started to smile at the dickhead in the Mazda.
'At least I've cheered some people up today.'
'Especially as you're a rabiblanco,' Aaron replied.
'That's what they call the ruling elite white asses.'
The boulevard emerged from little Manhattan and hit the coastline, following the sweep of a few Ks of bay. On our left was a marina, its sea protection built from rocks the size of Ford Fiestas. Million-dollar motor boats were parked amongst million-dollar yachts, all being lovingly cleaned and polished by uniformed crews. In the bay, a fleet of old wooden fishing boats was anchored round a sunken cargo ship, its two rusty masts and bow jutting from the calm of the Pacific. Further out to sea, maybe three or four Ks, a dozen or so large ships stood in line, pointing towards land, their decks loaded with containers.
Aaron followed my gaze.
'They're waiting to enter the canal.'
We swerved sharply to avoid a battered old Nissan saloon as it decided to change lanes without telling anyone. I instinctively pushed down with my braking foot.
This wasn't driving, this was a series of near-death experiences. There were a lot of brakes being hit in front of us and we followed suit, skidding slightly but coming to a halt without rear-ending the Nissan unlike someone a
