Dalisha looked at Karis. “Having a whole new set of locks for the canal means they’ll need more water. So that means the entire wetlands’ water levels will most likely have to be raised up to a meter. Or more, if their engineers don’t know what they’re doing.” She sat forward, head in her hands. “That’s another four hundred hectares of forest that’ll be drowned in water!” She looked at Karis woefully. “Tell me bigger isn’t always better!”
Karis fought back a smile. “Bigger is …” She paused. “Well, let’s just say that sometimes, when things are already in progress, it’s best to, you know, go with the flow. Just until you work out how you can—”
“Get to the point, Deen. Can’t I just blow them all up? Boom! Problem solved.”
Karis laughed. “That’s definitely one approach.”
Dalisha stood up with a groan. “I need beer. You want one?”
Karis nodded. “Please.”
Still wearing her socks, Dalisha left the room. A moment later, she poked her head back in, around the doorframe. “By the way, I forgot to tell you, your brother called this morning. He wants you to call him back.”
“Okay, thanks.” Karis maintained a poker face.
He called the landline?
She’d call back later. When there were fewer people around.
In a moment, Dalisha was back and proffering Karis a brown bottle. “I didn’t know you had a brother.” She took a long swig of her drink.
“Yeah.” Karis nodded. Without pause, she added, “He’s having trouble with his business.”
“How so?”
“He was supposed to take over the family business when Dad died, but our mom’s been blocking the legal process …” She let her voice trail off. “You don’t want to hear this. It’s boring family stuff.” She held up her beer. “Here’s to Barro Colorado.”
“Ah! Someone’s singing my tune!” The Director of the Smithsonian Tropical Institute’s voice boomed, and he strode into the office brandishing a bottle. He was followed by eight other people, all of them with Friday afternoon drinks in hand.
“Right!” the Director announced, good-naturedly. “Let’s hear it, everyone: impressions from today’s meeting …”
Karis leaned back on her desk and watched Dalisha as she launched into a postmortem of the afternoon’s activities. For a moment, she felt a prickle of envy. It was hard not to warm to Dalisha’s fire and authenticity; I would be nice to have that kind of freedom. To not have to come up with a story about a brother who does not exist. To not have to lie.
Part Two
Chapter Ten
Tocumen International Airport, Panama
January, 2009
As he moved with the throng of passengers along the gate, Max saw the familiar figure of his old friend.
“Godfredo! Finally!”
“Max fucking Burns! Welcome to Panama!”
The two embraced, then held each other at arm’s length for a moment.
Godfredo’s broad smile was exactly the same, with the addition of a small chip in the corner of one of his front teeth. He wore a stylish designer shirt, a pair of aviator sunglasses hanging from the breast pocket.
Clapping Max on the back, Godfredo laughed heartily. He ushered Max away from the crowd, through a side door, where a VIP-service concierge in a brown suit and collared shirt swooped in behind them.
Numerous ground staff nodded and waved in their direction.
“It’s good to see you, Fredo.” Max said. “And I see you have it all wrapped up here.” He laughed.
“Of course! I’m a Roco! What did you expect?!”
They bypassed the queues of passengers that snaked back almost to the arrival gates, and continued toward the immigration counter, where an officer waved them forward. She was seated behind a monitor and a fingerprint scanner, her curly, black hair pulled back into a tidy ponytail. She held out her hand, looked at the three of them one by one, took Max’s passport and started processing it.
The concierge, who had been standing beside Max, sidled up to her desk. “Te ha gustado el libro que te di, Madalena?” he asked, timidly.
She ignored him.
“What did he say to her?” Max asked.
“Never mind,” Godfredo whispered cheerfully. He turned and leant on her desk with one elbow, and continued to chat to her in Spanish. He was rewarded with a stern look as she handed back the passport.
She turned to Max. “Disfrute su estadía en Panamá. Enjoy your stay in Panama.”
“Thank you. Gracias,” Max ventured.
As they took his luggage off the carousel, Max was acutely aware that his English, German and rudimentary French were going to be of very little use here.
Godfredo moved toward a single side door. The concierge followed with his suitcases.
“He said something about reading?” Max asked.
Godfredo nodded. “Poor Eduardo. He’s been trying to get her to go out with him for about eight months. I suggested he give her a romantic book, because it’s a nice, safe thing to give a woman. So, what do you think he gives her? The Story of O.”
“And what’s that one about?”
“Bondage. And a girl who wants to be her boyfriend’s sex slave.” Godfredo started laughing.
“Oh dear. That doesn’t sound like a good start.”
“Nope.” Godfredo opened the door at the end of the corridor and immediately they were hit with a wave of humid heat. “Especially because the Panamanian girls … they’ve gotta approve of you and trust you, or it’s over before it’s begun.” Godfredo stopped walking and turned to Eduardo. “Gracias, amigo.” He put some dollar notes in Eduardo’s hand and patted him on the shoulder. “Next time, try before you buy, eh? That’s my philosophy.”
Eduardo nodded. “Gracias, Señor Godfredo.”
The two of them watched as Eduardo meandered back toward the terminal, waving to one of the baggage handlers, stopping to chat to several random passers-by. He looked up at the clouds, then headed over a man in a bright orange vest, who had a large dog on a leash. Both men lit up a cigarette.
“Blimey.” Max turned to Godfredo, laughing. “I guess I’m used to people in London walking in straight lines.”
“Yeah.” Godfredo’s expression was one of pure glee. “But this is Panama. It’s like the land of the fucking Lotus-eaters. You’re gonna love it!”
“What do you know about Lotus-eaters?” Max teased. “You never even opened a book when we studied it in school.”
“Fuck-all.” Godfredo grinned. “I saw it in a movie.” He beckoned Max to follow. “Come on. I’m gonna take you to the place that’ll be your home for the next six months.”
“Okay, great.”
“I was gonna take you on the boat, but it takes too fucking long.”
Godfredo pointed to a small, maroon helicopter that stood out by the hangar.
“A heli!” Max said.
Godfredo gave a cheeky smile, but it faded almost immediately. He stopped walking. “Oh, Jeez. I didn’t even think. You’re okay with helicopters, hermano?”
Max nodded. “Of course!” He smiled, knowing immediately that Godfredo was thinking of his parents: they’d gone down in a dragonfly heli—a distant relative of this one.
Godfredo didn’t look convinced.
Max put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Fredo. It was a bloody long time ago.”
In fact, he was surprised Godfredo had made the connection after so many years. But, then again, of all his schoolfriends, Godfredo was the only one who’d had the balls to come to the funeral. And—looking back—he knew it would have been torture trying to navigate the adults’ pitying looks and whisperings without his friend’s irreverence. And for that he was grateful.
“I guess we have some catching up to do,” he said, grinning, as they approached the craft. “So who’s flying?”
“Me, of course!” Godfredo’s cheerful demeanor had returned. “You trust me?”
“That
depends.” Max teased. “When did you get your license?”
“I didn’t. I just flew so many times that one day I decided to put my hands on the stick.”
When Max’s jaw dropped, Godfredo started laughing. “Relax, hermano, I have Carlos with me all the time. He’s my safety pilot. He can save me from myself.” He pointed to the heli, where—sure enough—a man sat on the right of the cockpit, in the pilot’s seat.
They loaded the suitcase into the craft, and Godfredo took the copilot’s seat. He looked over his shoulder. “Are you buckled in?”
Carlos’s Spanish was fast as he negotiated with air traffic control.
The chopper took off, and they started moving slowly across the tarmac to the east.
Finally, they were away: lifting quickly to escape the low altitude—the dead man’s zone—and up and out across the stretch of city toward the Bay of Panama.
Max looked behind the craft—down, toward the great canal as it receded into the haze—and, as the shallow mud flats made way for open waters, felt a sense of relief to be away from the heaviness of London’s gray skies.
“You going to tell me where we’re headed, exactly?” He spoke into the lip mic.
Godfredo turned again and grinned. “No. But I can promise you, you’ve never seen anything like it!”
Chapter Eleven
US Embassy, Clayton, Panama
Ambassador Larry Roebuck was tall, his hair tending to silver-gray, and he knew he cut a good figure. He usually wore the top two buttons of his short-sleeved, collared shirt undone, although today he’d added a tie for the occasion.
He looked at the group that was gathered in the largest of the American embassy’s private loungerooms. He had no idea what they’d be thinking; he hadn’t met this particular type of professional before—engineers. Geomatics and hydraulics. The ultimate breed of educated man, his grandfather would have said.
Roebuck was skeptical: it rarely paid dividends to listen to others’ definitions of greatness.
Well, no matter. All in good time. He looked forward to picking some brains over dinner that night.
“Welcome, welcome!” he exclaimed loudly, congenially—mostly to gain command of the room. He delivered one of the smiles that had won him the seat of Governor in Illinois, back in ’92. “You all look like you haven’t seen the sun for months!”
“It’s January. It was blizzarding in Pennsylvania when we left.” The man who spoke wore a gray business shirt. He was stone-faced, and there were large sweat patches under each arm.
For a moment, Roebuck was taken aback. It had been quite some time since the people around him had not been willing to play along in the game of social niceties, and it occurred to him that life in Panama may have been a little too comfortable.
He recovered himself, and smiled good-humoredly. The man, John Siegel, Junior, was in fact the most senior of the Siegel Group—the American engineering team. They’d spoken on the phone last week. “Make no mistake, we plan to win,” Siegel had said, and Roebuck had been pleased: it was always good to meet someone with ambitions.
And yet, looking at John Junior as he stood in front of him that morning, Roebuck was underwhelmed.
He couldn’t put his finger on it.
Still, these engineers were the best America had to offer, and Roebuck was willing to concede that—between them—they must pack a punch. Despite their scratchy demeanor.
Roebuck smiled. He relished a challenge.
As he delivered his memorized speech, he made mental notes: the hi-top sneakers is the dogsbody; the skirt is head of IT; the navy suit-pants and Italian leather shoes is the financial guy … He named them individually, welcoming each of them, to be sure they felt acknowledged.
Duly, they seemed impressed.
“And, may I say, on a personal note, what an honor it is for me to meet the Siegel Group today. You do our country proud.” Roebuck nodded, as his audience murmured their appreciation.
He looked around the room. “As you know, this canal has a long and checkered history, and we—the Americans—have been here every step of the way, from the time we took over from the French back in the 1920s, until we handed the canal back to the Panamanian people less than a decade ago.” He paused. “This is nothing less than the opportunity of a lifetime. An opportunity to contribute and make our mark in history, and to continue the long and fruitful relationship between our great countries: Panama and the United States of America.”
He paused, watching his audience. Gauging.
There were nods and smiles.
Roebuck was pleased: they seemed like a committed bunch.
He continued. “Of course our government can’t assist you in the work, but I can wholeheartedly guarantee that we at the embassy will do anything we can to help make your stay more comfortable.” He smiled. “And wouldn’t it be a day to remember if an American consortium won this bid?!”
Glasses were raised, and Roebuck acknowledged the approving faces with his own, raised glass.
Once back in his office, Roebuck took off his shirt.
He selected a freshly dry-cleaned one from the hangers by the door, and moved across to the window.
As he worked on the buttons with his fingers, he observed the grounds of the entire American Embassy compound as it stretched down the gently sloping hillside suburb of Clayton. Less than a kilometer away, as the crow flies, lay the Panama Canal itself, the Miraflores locks hidden behind a long, lean ribbon of lush vegetation, parallel with the horizon.
Every few hours, a new protrusion of massive steel superstructure and brightly painted shipping containers carved its way slowly—glacially—through the illusion of endless, tropical green. A reminder, perhaps, that outside this idyll, the world’s traders were inching ever forwards.
The lights on the phone on Roebuck’s desk started flashing.
“Summers?” he hollered.
The phone was still flashing.
He strode to the door of his office.
“Summers!” he called out again, and looked across the hall. But his assistant appeared not to be at his desk.
He frowned: this wasn’t the first time Summers had dropped the ball. Roebuck had caught him only last week practicing his golf swing in the office. Which was understandable, of course: Summers was a young man, and Panama was the only place in the world you could play golf almost 360 days a year, thanks to its down-to-the-minute predictable, tropical weather.
If it had been a Friday, he’d have had no qualms about Summers taking the afternoon off—nobody in their right mind worked on a Friday afternoon. At least, no member of Panama City’s business and diplomatic echelons.
But it wasn’t Friday. It was Monday. And he was due at a dinner shortly with the senior members of the Siegel team and the Director of the Smithsonian Tropical Institute. He’d need his official car.
He strode back to his desk and reached for the telephone receiver. He punched a button with his forefinger.
“Roebuck,” he said.
“Hola, Larry. It’s me.”
He knew the voice.
“Lord, it’s about time,” Roebuck said. “I was starting to wonder if you’d fallen off the face of the earth.” He walked around his desk so as to have a view of the door. “Problem?”
“No, quite the contrary. Looks like there’s a lot of international interest. It’s going to be big!”
“Great news.” Roebuck paused. “That’s it, then?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. So don’t call me again.”
He hung up and turned to look out his window. He could hear children in the nearby playground, and a chorus of tropical birds.
It was nothing short of delightful.
Yes, Panama sure beat the pants off any other place he’d lived—or even visited—before. By comparison, this country was a frontier; an outpost. And outposts often offered more opportunities than one would expect. Opportunities to make a real difference.
And that’s
exactly why he’d taken the job.
“Sir? Sir!”
Summers arrived in his doorway, short of breath. “Sorry, Sir. I had to get taxis organized for the Siegel team.”
“All it takes is a bit of communication,” Roebuck said, coolly. “And then we’re all clear on who’s doing what.”
“Yes, Sir. Of course. Your car is waiting. Your wife will meet you at the gate.”
As he shrugged on his jacket, Roebuck thought briefly of John Siegel, Junior.
And now he was sure of what had been bugging him: the man had no presence. And, Lord knows, a man who doesn’t inhabit his own skin is a risk.
A timely reminder that the linchpin isn’t always at the apex of the pyramid.
Chapter Twelve
Contadora, Pearl Islands, Bay of Panama
As the helicopter lost altitude, Max saw the deep azure of the Pacific give way to shallower waters. Luxury yachts of all sizes were clustered periodically along the shoreline, and a short runway, running north to south, neatly dissected the tiny island, whose lush landscape was now taking shape.
Even as Max watched, the sun started to dip toward the horizon, casting the already orange sky blood red.
“Contadora Island, my friend!” Godfredo spoke into the lip-mic as he turned to look at Max from the cockpit. “Welcome to Paradise!” The last rays of light caught the side of his face, and he gave a broad smile.
“This is where we’re staying?” Max asked.
“Yep.”
Sprawling sandstone villas could now be seen amid lush vegetation and the fiery pinks and whites of bougainvillea, fronting slender beaches.
“I dunno, Fredo,” Max teased. “Looks like it’s going to be rough down there.”
“You don’t know the half of it!” Godfredo laughed. “The island is a lot of fun.” Max eyed the arc of a broad and serene sandy cove. “What happens on Contadora stays on Contadora!”
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