Godfredo recognized the laugh: he was about to be shot down in flames.
To his surprise, however, Paco started nodding slowly, and there was a look of approval on his face. “Fifty–fifty,” he repeated. “Now you’re thinking like a Roco.”
Paco’s laugh exploded once more. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“No,” he said. He stood up and pointed at Godfredo. “You don’t get to tell me how it works.” He straightened his jacket. “I’ll tell you how much you get, once we’re through.”
As he entered his apartment on the top floor of the hotel, Godfredo started loosening his top buttons.
“Asshole,” he said. “One more fucking carrot …”—he ripped off his tie—“dangling … in front of my face.”
He pulled the tie free from the collars of his shirt, scrunched it into a ball and sent it, missile-like, toward the window. It unraveled mid-air, landing on a fresh display of tropical foliage and bright orange blooms. The room had been tidied immaculately—except for Sofia’s pink G-string, which had been placed, neatly folded, at the center of the headrest on one of the armchairs, like some absurdist antimacassar.
Godfredo checked his watch. He might have time to see her tonight.
He looked out the floor-to-ceiling window: the Atlantic tide was well on its way out, revealing extensive mud flats below, and a horizon that was invisible behind the haze of a storm out at sea.
Across the bay, to the right, beyond the old Spanish domes and façades of Panama’s Old Town—the Casco Viejo—about fifteen massive cargo ships sat, anchored, awaiting their turn to pass through the canal. As he watched, the foremost ship inched toward the estuary, where it would make its way north, through the first two sets of locks. Each passage came in at around two hundred thousand dollars—no credit, no checks—amounting to two billion dollars in revenue each year that was desperately needed to keep the Canal Authority and the country afloat.
The thought of it—the pure scale of it—was enough to make Godfredo’s heart-rate escalate. It would require more dredgers, more basalt, more earth movers and cranes than he’d seen on any one project before, ever. Tens of thousands of laborers would have to be on the payroll.
He walked swiftly to the refrigerator and twisted the top off a bottle of beer.
What if they really could submit the winning design? What if they won the whole goddamn project?
Yes. Godfredo nodded, setting his jaw. He could smell the money. And the chance to be Paco’s equal in a very, very big game.
As long as they could nail the right team.
Max Burns.
Godfredo laughed.
Of all the people to crop up on the radar after all these years!
Max Burns was the only one of his boarding school friends who’d ever been able to match him drink-for-drink on the rare weekends they’d escaped the school confines. Many times, they’d taken the train together to Paco’s bachelor pad on the Bahnhofstrasse in Zürich; that’s where they taught themselves to play blackjack.
Max had also been the only friend who’d had the temerity—or perhaps cared enough—to outright confront him one night about the bruises he’d acquired during the school holidays.
“Your dad’s a complete asshole.” Max’s exact words.
Godfredo’s smile faded at the memory of that night—at the memory of his seething anger toward Max, the sound of his own fist striking his best friend’s jaw, and the two of them locked together in a brawl. Falling hard onto the ice, when they ought to have been making their way up the snowy road to the alpine boarding school with their suitcases. His own blood staining the front of his jacket.
That night was the very same night Max’s strange uncle, Alan, had shown up in the boarding school foyer, clutching a scarf and wearing a thin mackintosh raincoat. The night Max first heard his parents had gone down in a fatal helicopter accident.
How quickly lives can change.
Godfredo pushed the image of Max’s stricken face from his mind, and moved across to the table. He opened the laptop.
“Okay, Max Burns,” he said as he typed into the search engine. “Where are you now?”
Chapter Five
Hippodrome Race Track, Panama City, Panama
It was early for alcohol—well before lunchtime—but Godfredo was parched after spending two hours or more in the heat, waiting for the so-called ‘urgent’ meeting with his father.
On the television screen above the bar, an aerial view of Miraflores—the southernmost set of the Panama Canal locks—cut away to a shot of the mules: motorized engines that ran on tracks, moving steadily alongside a hulking vessel from the People’s Republic of China. It was loaded with shipping containers.
“The canal used to belong to the United States until the 1970s, didn’t it?” came the interviewer’s voice, as they switched back to a two-way interview with a reporter in Panama.
Godfredo tapped the bar impatiently and watched the waitress as she meticulously unfolded two tiny paper cocktail umbrellas. She had a good rack underneath that white button-up. But they all did, those Colombian girls.
“Not ‘belong’, exactly,” came the reporter’s response. Godfredo looked back at the screen. “The US took over custodianship until 1999—the ‘millennium change’, as it’s called. That’s when the canal was handed back to the Panamanians on the proviso that the US retain—and I quote from Wikipedia here—‘the permanent right to defend the canal from any threat that might interfere with its continued neutral service to ships of all nations.’”
“The Torrijos–Carter treaties, right?”
“Exactly. Signed back in 1977, between US President Jimmy Carter and General Omar Torrijos. So even though the US gave away control of the canal, they still have the contractual right to step in, with military force if necessary.”
“I expect there’ll be more than a few scientists with something to say about the ecological impact of expanding the canal. Have you observed much opposition to the project, there in Panama?”
The waitress placed the drinks, complete with their tiny paper umbrellas, on the bar. As Godfredo pulled out his wallet, he kept his eye on the screen.
“There’s surprisingly little opposition here on the ground. The Panamanian government have been very transparent about their plans to design, construct and operate in compliance with the environmental regulations of the Republic of Panama, as well as being in line with international guidelines such as the Equator Principles, which essentially outline criteria for sustainable development.”
“And what about the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute? They’re deeply embedded in the region, aren’t they? They’re an American institute … What do they have to say about it?”
“Yes, American researchers have been in the canal’s region since the turn of last century, but they’ve always had a very good working relationship with the Canal Administration and the Panamanian government. Interestingly, most of the opposition seems to be coming from the members of congress over in the US …”
Godfredo paused, bank note in hand.
“… There has always been opposition, ever since the Torrijos-Carter treaties were first proposed. Many Americans to this day still don’t understand how their government could have given away such a huge asset. So, ever since the treaties were drawn up, the more vocal dissenters have focused on what they call a ‘transcreation’ issue, arguing that the Spanish version reads differently than the English version, and the difference in wording more or less ‘voids’ the treaties … But the larger issue seems to be that they still haven’t been able to swallow the idea that they gave the canal back for free. After all, it’s the most important waterway in the world.”
“So we can assume the Americans will be putting in a bid for the expansion project, then?”
“They will. And we know that the Pittsburgh-based Siegel Group will be competing. I spoke with the American Ambassador in Panama, Larry Roebuck, earlier today …”
&nb
sp; Godfredo had heard enough. He handed the waitress a large note and told her to keep the change. He took the glasses and made his way to the door. They were already wet from condensation.
He was hit with a wave of heat once more as the door closed behind him.
Paco himself had been doing the rounds of the racecourse trainers since early that morning; he was even bringing in a vet later that week, with a view to purchasing another animal. Which Godfredo took to mean that he had every intention of staying in Panama—of winning this canal expansion project bid.
Sofia was sitting under the shell-shaped grandstand like some incredible, sexy Venus de Milo. She wore a broadbrimmed hat, and was leafing through a magazine. Several kids were kicking sticks around nearby.
“Maracuja,” he announced.
Sofia rewarded him with a smile. She liked the icy, sweet stuff. Passionfruit was her favorite.
As he handed her the drink, he saw Paco striding across the expanse toward him.
“Tell her to get lost,” Paco called out. “I need to talk to you.” He waved an arm in Sofia’s direction.
Godfredo wasn’t keen on being dissed in front of Sofia—regardless of their financial arrangement—but Sofia’s facial expression gave no indication that she’d paid any attention to Paco’s words; one long, smooth leg was crossed over the other, her foot tapping to an inaudible rhythm. Uncomplicated. Godfredo liked that.
He smiled, and said to her, “Give me half an hour.”
“Sure, baby.” She slipped the magazine into her bag and wandered off with her usual, casual gait. All the time in the world. She settled herself at a table out front of the bar.
“I don’t like the shortlist,” Paco said, stopping in front of Godfredo. He thrust a paper at him. He was slightly breathless, and his shirt was wet with sweat. His gold signet ring sat tight on his pinkie.
“What do you mean?” Godfredo took a moment to look at the paper.
“These guys?” Paco pointed to a couple of names on the list. “They aren’t reliable. They worked on that big hotel that collapsed in Rome.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Christ, it’s hot.”
“That’s the risk you take when you refuse to use your regular contractors,” Godfredo retorted. His father smelled like he’d been with the horses all morning.
“What about the Burns kid?” Paco said.
“Max? I spoke to him last night.”
“And?” Paco perked up visibly.
“He’d be perfect: he’s a geomatic engineer now, and he knows a hydrogeologist who’s won ass-loads of prizes, and even consulted on the Maasvlakte project in Rotterdam.” Godfredo smiled ruefully.
“So? They sound perfect. What’s the problem?”
“He says he can’t take time out to come to Panama. He’s signed up for some big-ticket job in London. Plus, he’s getting married.”
“Of course he can fucking do it. Strike a deal, offer him money, whatever he wants. It’s only six months for the tender process. Just get him over here. It can’t be that difficult.”
“I can try, but I don’t know if that will work.”
“Time’s ticking, and we need a reputable engineering team from a well-known university in the UK,” Paco said. “They don’t have to be fucking Albert Einstein, but they need to be reputable. Nice and clean. That’s all.”
Godfredo squinted. “You just said ‘reputable’ twice in one sentence. Should that bother me?”
Paco looked at the sky. “Just get the fucking engineers, Godfredo. Is it so hard?” He flapped his fingers in a comehere gesture. “Gimme the drink.”
Godfredo watched his father flick the tiny paper umbrella away like a mosquito before draining the glass.
Paco emitted a long sigh. “I tell you, if this doesn’t work out …”
“What?” Godfredo said. “If what doesn’t work out?”
Paco was silent for a moment. Eventually, he said, “Okay. Since you asked: our company is dead in the water if we don’t get this project.”
Godfredo gaped.
“You know the business we’re in.” Paco crushed ice between his teeth. “The Spanish market? Dead. And the British government are cancelling contracts and cutting building costs and subsidies all over the place. I still need to maintain staff back in the UK, in Madrid, São Paolo. We’re running at a loss most of the time.”
“How …?” Godfredo searched for words. “How can you be so relaxed about it?” He suddenly had the urge to look around him. As though they were being observed. “Do we have some reserves stashed away somewhere you’re not telling me about?”
He couldn’t understand how his father could keep his cool.
“It’s business, Godfredo. You take your risks, sometimes it pays off, and sometimes you end up churning out fucking shopping malls and parking lots and cleaning up other people’s screw-ups. Because mistakes in concrete aren’t pretty.” His laugh was coarse. “But this one … This one is different. This is our chance to play in the big league again.” He paused. “I build. I’ve built some of the greatest bridges in Europe. I saved this company after your mother’s idiot family drove it into the ground.”
Yeah, and renamed it after yourself.
Godfredo considered his father’s words for a moment. “So basically you’re saying this is a last-ditch attempt to get a megadeal that will save your ass. And you’re not worried?”
“No. And it will save your ass, too.”
“I still don’t understand. You’re the one who says, ‘work with people you’ve worked with before. Less risk,’ you say. And here you are, asking me to pull in a team of engineers that I don’t know from a can of paint.”
Paco was silent.
“Jesus,” Godfredo said. “You don’t really care about the team, do you? You cut a deal. Who with?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Dad!” Godfredo turned away from his father, walked a couple of directionless steps. “Fuck. I should have known. Not even you would take a risk on something this big unless you knew it was a walk-in.” He turned and stared at his father: the asshole’d had some hair implants to disguise that balding spot since the last time he saw him. Subtle, but it was there if you looked.
“You still want to be able to drive your Bugatti?” Paco asked. “Or you want to end up in a London housing estate like your friend Max? Because that’s what happens when your father loses everything, Godfredo. Remember?”
“That’s not the point! We can still win this without any of your so-called ‘assistance.’ We’re better than that.”
Paco gave a brittle laugh. “Okay, you believe that if you want. Like I said: reputable. It’s all we need. And make sure they know they’ll get a nice, fat remuneration if we win the bid.” He thrust the empty glass back at Godfredo. He patted his chest and hip jacket pockets, and seemed to find what he was looking for. “I’ve got a meeting. Sort it out today.”
Meeting? My ass. Godfredo knew what his father meant, and he suspected it wore a short skirt, and was in a tavern less than a stone’s throw from the foyer of the Marriott Hotel.
Fucking bankrupt.
Godfredo paced alongside the racetrack, staring out at the small tractor as it inched along, combing the dark, river-silt surface of the track.
Pasting on a smile, he waved to Sofia and made his way back to the grandstand.
And Max … What about Max?
The two of them hadn’t seen each other or spoken for many years. Even now, they were only corresponding with text messages and emails.
But that’s the way it had always been. Throughout their teenage years, every January—right around the time Max’s parents had died—he had sent Max a postcard from his school in the tiny mountain village of Zuoz to London. At some point, later, they wrote an occasional email. Until the emails he sent to Max’s free-service host started to bounce.
Godfredo never chased him up after that.
It would have been easy enough, but—really—what was ther
e to say? Just went parasailing in the Cayman Islands … Just screwed the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on but I was too fucking gutless to call her the next day … Just snorted my first line of coke.
Godfredo kept his eyes firmly on the ground in front of him.
Well, be that as it may … it was time to call his old friend.
He felt Sofia’s cool hand on his arm.
“Hola, baby,” he said. He pulled her to him, and planted a hand on one of her buttocks. “Let’s go get us a boat, shall we? I’m in the mood for a party.”
“You want me to call some of my friends?”
Godfredo nodded. “Ask them to clear their schedules for a few weeks. We might have us some visitors from England.”
Chapter Six
London, England
When his cellphone rang, Max didn’t recognize the number.
He picked up immediately; he had intended to clear out his university email account that day, but for the past two hours he’d been sidetracked on an email and its attachments from Godfredo Roco.
And now he hardly dared hope it might be his old friend on the line.
“Hermano!”
“Fredo!” Max leaned back in his chair and pushed his laptop to one side. “I’m so happy you called! It’s great to hear your voice.”
“Same here, Max. Finally! It was about time, after so many years—”
Max inclined his head. “Where are you? It sounds like a party!” The line wasn’t great, and he could hear music and laughter in the background.
“That’s because it is a party! I’m on a yacht. And, Max … the sun is shining, and it’s just beautiful! You should be here!”
Max could only smile at the unfettered joy in Godfredo’s voice. “Fredo, you sound exactly the same as you did in school! And it looks like you haven’t changed a bit!”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a bit more to show for myself than I did back then—”
There was a crackle on the line, and his friend’s voice dropped out.
The Expansion Page 3