“Tonight?”
“Yes. Moyle has organized a sort of farewell do.”
“That sounds fun. Fairly short notice, though.”
Max merely nodded, ignoring the trace of disapproval in her tone; over the years, he had learned that Sarah—and indeed the whole Beauvoir family—required at least two weeks’ notice for social engagements. They did not appreciate last minute surprises.
Perhaps because he was silent, Sarah turned to him, briefly. “Is something wrong?”
“Of course not,” he said.
“So why aren’t you smiling, then?”
Max ran a hand through his hair. “The Panama Canal is being expanded.”
“So?” Sarah’s gaze flicked to the rear vision mirror.
“Moyle wants to put together a team and submit a bid.”
“For the expansion? Wow. That’s ambitious.” She pulled up at a traffic light, indicator on, and turned to him.
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “It is.”
For a moment, Max thought of his long-time colleague Alexandra Wong, and he wondered if Moyle had told her yet. It had been quite some time since the two of them had worked together on a project, and this one would be right up her street.
A flicker of concern crossed Sarah’s face. “Wait. You’re not considering …?” Her voice trailed off and she turned away. She put a couple of fingers to her forehead, as though warding off one of her migraines. But when she turned to him, her expression was fierce. “You have already signed a contract with my father. And yet Moyle is still trying to get his hooks into you?”
A horn honked behind them, and Sarah threw the car into gear with force.
“But then again,” she snapped, as they lurched forward, “it doesn’t surprise me. In fact, I expect it’s no coincidence that they announce the expansion of the Panama Canal and—gosh!—all of a sudden, the esteemed Professor Moyle decides tonight would be a good night to honor your departure—”
“Sarah, please.” Max cut her off. “I’m a geomatic engineer, for God’s sake. It’s logical and completely understandable that if an incredible opportunity like this were to come his way that he would think of me to be part of his team.”
She didn’t respond. The windshield wipers sped up a notch to combat a fresh downpour.
They had arrived at the street they lived on, and Sarah pulled the car into a parking space out front of their terrace house.
“I know you’re upset,” Max said, as Sarah reached for her handbag from the seat behind them. “But I would really appreciate it if you would join me tonight.”
She paused, her bag in her hand, and pulled out her umbrella. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I don’t feel the need to step into an arena with Moyle.”
The car door slammed.
Sighing, Max gathered his jacket under his arm and watched her run toward the house.
Chapter Two
London, England
“Hellooo!” A woman’s voice shredded the Baroque string music that played quietly in Professor Moyle’s small apartment.
Max caught the familiar flash of a red trench coat as the professor waved Alexandra Wong in. Her coat clung to her slight frame, and her usually sleek, black tresses were tangled and dripping.
“Oh my God! Rosemary!” Alex said with glee, as she walked ahead of the professor into the room. “It smells like a full roast dinner!” She closed her eyes and inhaled, a smile on her lips. “Delicious!”
Max, wine in hand, was standing alongside the generous island counter that divided the kitchen from the living room.
“And hello to you, too, Alex,” he said, laughing.
Moyle’s flat was modern, and bookshelves lined every inch of wall except in the kitchen, where—Max had recently learned—Moyle’s defiant refusal to dispose of any books had resulted in a curious repurposing of his tomes: a pallet-load of hardcover books that looked to be relics from last century were stacked neatly and had been secured with long metal bolts to form the solid base of a rustic, timber-topped kitchen counter. A similar stack of books formed the base of a glass-topped coffee table in the center of the living area.
“So did he tell you?!” Alex asked. She stood next to Max, and tipped her head towards the professor, who had resumed his position behind the kitchen counter and was now chopping carrot with robotic precision.
“I did.” Moyle’s tone was haughty. “Please remove your wet items, Alexandra.”
She obediently took off her coat and hung it over the back of one of the nearby dining chairs.
Moyle placed his knife on the counter. “Would a hanger by the front door not be a more appropriate choice for your attire?” he asked.
As Alex picked up her coat, Max poured her a glass of red wine from a chipped and finger-smudged crystal decanter.
“So are you on board?” Alex returned and took the glass.
“On board?” Max looked at the professor, who appeared to be closely inspecting the page of a recipe book. He forced himself to suppress the feeling that Sarah may have been right: this was not a farewell dinner.
“The Panamanian government is going to open the tender process on Monday,” Alex said, interrupting his thoughts. She beamed at him.
“So soon?”
“I know, right?” She jumped up and down slightly, her face animated. “We’d need to get a team together to register our interest, then we have six months to submit our bid, and we’d need to—”
“Come, come,” Moyle interjected. “Let’s not put the cart before the horse. We’ll wait until Gian arrives.”
“Gian’s also coming tonight …?”
“Yes,” Alex said. “We can’t submit our bid without a software whiz.”
“Our bid …?” Max stopped. He started laughing, and shook his head. “This is starting to look less like a farewell party and more like a welcome party, isn’t it?”
Moyle smiled. “Would that be so wrong?”
“You know I’ve already signed a contract with the Beauvoir Group. Two months ago. I can’t just walk away from that.”
“Shit a brick, Max!” Alex exploded. “Don’t you get it?! It’s the Panama Canal!”
Max held up his hands in a gesture that he hoped was distancing. “I’m sorry. I’d love to join you, you know I would, but—”
“Max.” Moyle placed the knife beside the chopping board once more. “The decision is yours. However, consider this: you know the story of the canal.” He tipped his chin down and looked at Max over the top of his glasses. “You know what a beast it was to build!”
Max frowned, as though to say, ‘don’t insult me.’ He had written his Ph.D. thesis on the Suez Canal and, in the process, done extensive research on the Panama Canal: the French-initiated behemoth that ultimately became America’s triumphant engineering debut on the world stage.
Moyle continued, his tone sober. “Even if you weren’t to make it past the bidding process, it’s still a chance to get your gray matter around one of the biggest engineering challenges in the world.” He looked at Alex and Max in turn. “And the two of you …” He clamped his lips shut for a moment. “Well, I’m far too old and tired to take on something of this magnitude myself, but you two have a real shot.” He paused. “You won’t be able to do it alone. We’d still need to pull together a first-class team, including local experts from Panama—”
The doorbell chimed once more, and Moyle excused himself, making his way to the front hall.
“Great,” Alex hissed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You walk away … and there goes my opportunity to work on something really epic.”
Max turned to her. “Alex, you can partner up with anyone you like. You’re the senior lecturer in this department. And I know Moyle will support you, whatever you do.”
“No, Max. It won’t work without you.” She pointed to where the professor was now helping Gian Tarocco with his coat. Her expression was bitter. “He won’t back me if I’m on my own. He said as much. Because,”—she air
-quoted with her fingers—“‘Your work is a thousand times better when you work with Burns.’”
“Alex, you of all people know how excited I am about the news,” Max said. “It’s an engineer’s dream. The chance I’ve been waiting for. But I have to consider Sarah.”
“Burns!” Gian Tarocco strode across the room toward Max, a huge smile on his face. “So you’re joining the team!” He was already equipped with a cold bottle of beer.
Chapter Three
Wolverhampton, England
“Francisco Roco! Are you still chasing women from Madrid to Mallorca?”
“Who’s this?”
Paco Roco put down his pen and sat back in his leather chair. It wasn’t so unusual to hear someone call him by his full name, but this caller seemed to know him better than that. He put his feet up on the large oak desk.
“It’s someone who can whip your sorry ass at blackjack!”
In an instant, Paco was on his feet, causing the small dog—a black-and-white Boston Terrier—under his chair to startle.
“Well fuck me! If it isn’t the long-lost Prince of Panama himself!” he said. “How are you, my old friend?”
He strode across to the French windows, his smile broad, and opened the room to the tediously gray English day.
The dog followed him onto the terrace.
“No such thing as royalty in politics, Paco. We take our gloves off before we get in the ring.”
Paco roared with laughter. “Gloves? When did you ever wear gloves?! You love getting your hands dirty!”
Hearing his old friend’s voice, he was reminded of the sweltering heat and the hustle of Madrid where the two of them had met, working a short stint alongside each other during the upswing of the southern European housing bubble. It had led to far bigger collaborations when they had together expanded operations into South America.
There was another laugh. “Those were the days! But I can’t complain. I’ve done alright in Panama.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Even my flatracers are coming through for me.”
“You’re still playing the field?”
“Of course! I have a great trainer.” There was a pause. “Say, Paco, you want to come meet him?”
Immediately, Paco felt the familiar rush of adrenaline.
“Talk to me,” he said, all business; he knew subtext when he heard it. “What do you need? I know you didn’t call to talk about horses.” He slid the dog to the side with his foot and leaned forward to rest an elbow on the stone balustrade.
“I have a … Let’s call it a retirement plan.”
“Holy mother. You’re talking about the goddamn Panama Canal, aren’t you? I saw the news.”
His friend laughed.
“You sly bastard! So are you personally overseeing the whole process?”
“Yes. That’s why I’m calling. So, you’re interested, then?”
“My friend, I’m in construction. You say, ‘Concrete’; I say, ‘How much?’”
And all of a sudden, Paco felt good. He hadn’t felt this good in a long time.
But he’d been in business too long to think it would be that simple.
“What’s the caveat?” he asked.
“We do it my way.”
Paco pursed his lips.
Fucker thinks he can push me around, he thought. Well, he didn’t get to where he is now without me.
“Are you thinking of leaving politics, then?” he asked innocently. “Is everything alright? How’s Rosa?”
There was a brief silence.
Paco knew he had him.
“She’s okay. If you like the cancer-wig look.”
Paco winced, as an uninvited image of his own, dying mother flashed before his eyes: her skin gray and deflated. Her dry, spider-veined hands no longer able to respond to touch.
Still. There it was: his insurance. Who knows how long Rosa herself had on this earth, but a bit of extra financial liquidity would certainly ease her passage to the infinite beyond.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Paco said, in a much better mood. “Let’s talk in person. I can be in Panama mid-week. I’ll send Godfredo over right away—he can leave tomorrow. You and me, we can talk details when I get there.”
“Perfect. I’ll get my man Fuentes to meet him at the airport.”
Paco ended the call and replaced the receiver on the desk in front of him.
Resting his hands on his chest, he breathed deeply. He leaned down and picked up the dog.
“You hear that? This is gonna be the big one,” he said to the small creature. “The one that saves Paco Roco’s bacon.”
He sat the creature on his desk between two framed photographs: Starlight Starbright and Running Hot, both of them still yearlings, but on track to become his best flatracers.
“What’m I gonna do with my horses if I go to Panama, eh?” He cocked his head to one side. The dog followed suit, wagging its tail. “What’s Godfredo gonna do without his lapdog?”
The dog quivered with unspent energy.
“Godfredo!” he bellowed, and the dog skittered off the table. “Pack your bags! And while you’re at it, find your fucking dog a new home!”
Chapter Four
Obarrio, Panama City
A spectacular sunset had started to creep across the sky as Godfredo Roco stuffed papers in his briefcase. The driver—Fuentes—took the corner sharply as he navigated the early evening traffic.
“Jesus!” Godfredo laughed. “You get your driver’s license from a Hollywood stuntman?”
Fuentes grinned and expertly pulled the car to a standstill, narrowly avoiding a collision at the traffic lights.
Not for the first time that day Godfredo thanked his lucky stars he’d agreed to have a driver. Panama’s streets were a war zone. At every intersection, your balls were on the line, and honking loudly and long was the lingua franca. Godfredo was used to running his own schedule, and considered himself a natural talent behind the wheel—he owned two Bugattis and a sweet, vintage Corvette back in England—but when he saw the state of the Panamanian roads, with their great, mismatched concrete slabs and traffic snarls, he was glad he hadn’t subjected a custom, low-suspension ride to these conditions. Or his ass, for that matter.
He checked his watch, and scooped up his briefcase and jacket.
The Marriott Hotel and its adjoining casino commanded most of the real estate on the street.
Directly across from it stood a row of run-down buildings. A small tavern was set back a little from the main thoroughfare, its denuded vines and flickering, green neon lighting tubes incongruous in the face of its shiny, moneyed neighbor.
As he alighted from the car, Godfredo cast an eye in its direction, half expecting to spot his father seated on the patio among scantily clad waitresses; throwing back a quick drink, perhaps. The bar, however, with its mirrored splashbacks, was empty, save for a couple of high-heeled women resting their elbows on bench tops.
Turning his attention to the upcoming meeting, Godfredo entered the spacious foyer of the hotel, and made his way to the lounge.
Paco was seated in a low, black leather sofa at one of the glass-topped coffee tables. His eyes were on a document in front of him.
“You’re wearing glasses!” Godfredo said. His father must’ve been blind as a bat if he’d bothered to go to the trouble of getting glasses.
“You’re late.” Paco didn’t look up as Godfredo sat opposite, instead indicating the beer bottle that sat, untouched, on the other side of the table.
Godfredo helped himself, pouring the liquid into a tall glass.
“We have a big-ass task ahead,” Paco continued.
Godfredo smiled. “You think?” he joked. “Even Fuentes was doling out advice about managing Panama’s water supply.” He paused. “Who does he work for, exactly? He knows an awful lot about the canal.”
Paco finally looked up. He took off his glasses. Ignoring Godfredo’s questioning, he asked, “Did you go over the material?�
�
Godfredo pulled the sheaf from his briefcase. “Yes. It says here ninety percent of Panama’s drinking water comes from the Chagres River—”
“I’ve read the documents,” Paco cut in. “I was asking if you’d read them.”
Nonplussed, Godfredo continued: “Yes, and you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to see it’s all about the water management.” He exhaled as he leafed through the papers. “Bridges and urban waterways are one thing, but this is a whole fucking wetlands ecosystem.”
“You got some names for me? Hydrographers?”
“Nope.” He shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Godfredo, you think this is a fucking holiday?”
“Dad, relax. I got all the blueprints, submitted the expression of interest, and now I’m five feet deep in eco-fucking-flora-and-fauna documents. I haven’t had time to look for megascale hydrogeologists.”
Paco grunted. He leaned back in his chair. “Alright. I’ve got few ideas, I’ll make some calls. I know a couple of Dutch guys.” He paused. “What about that kid you went to school with in Switzerland?”
Godfredo drew a blank. He shook his head.
“The one whose dad got screwed over by Rupert Garcia. What happened to him?”
“Max Burns? He left.”
“I know that. I’m asking: what did he study? Didn’t he do engineering? Something about Egypt?”
“You’re right.” Godfredo sat forward, tapping the table as he trawled his memory. “I remember he did his thesis on the Suez Canal. He studied in London. I haven’t seen him for fucking ever. I think he’s teaching now. He might know someone.”
“So what are you waiting for? Get in contact with him.”
Godfredo wrote ‘Max Burns’ on the cover of the dossier in his hand, as a reminder. He tossed it onto the table, leaned back in his chair and took a long draught of beer. He pointed to the documents that lay on the table in front of Paco. “And just so you know, I want fifty–fifty on the profits for this one,” he said.
Paco froze, his beer half way to his mouth. He looked at Godfredo. “Fifty–fifty?” He started laughing.
The Expansion Page 2