Max opted to assume his friend was referring to the physical security an island would afford.
In fact, it hadn’t occurred to him that there might be any security issues, but Godfredo—as had been his tendency, even at school—was always accounting for all possible outcomes. And Max was reminded of the very reason his friend had been made captain of the ice hockey team all those years ago: a surprise to those who didn’t know that his blasé and in some ways superficial attitude masked a strategic mind.
As Godfredo expertly brought the heli down on a purpose-built landing pad in the grounds of one of the villas, Max knew he was in good hands.
“So tell me, Fredo,” he said, as they unloaded their bags from the helicopter. “How did you organize this?”
Godfredo waved a dismissive hand. “Dad knows people,” he said.
“He sure does,” Max murmured, impressed, his gaze resting on the façade of a villa nearby. He looked at Godfredo. “And there’ll be enough office space for all of us …?” He glanced around again. “Somewhere around here?”
Godfredo laughed. “Relax, hermano. I’ll show you around later. There’s another villa behind those trees there.” He paused to look at Max. “Unless you want to go check the inventory now?”
Max knew he was being teased.
It was as they approached the main building that he heard music and the sound of raucous laughter. An older woman in a maid’s uniform—gray dress with white apron—was carrying long, bamboo garden torches and standing them in brackets along the garden paths. As she reached up to light one, she smiled. “Hola, Señor Godfredo!” The flame danced in the gentle sea breeze and Godfredo greeted her with a wave and a few lines of Spanish.
He turned to Max. “We’re just in time, hermano! This way!” His pace quickened.
“You sure I don’t need to get my bags?” Max looked tentatively over his shoulder to the helicopter. There was still daylight enough for him to see that his bags sat abandoned on the outer perimeter of the helipad and the pilot was nowhere to be seen.
“Yep, the staff will bring them.”
“Okay.” Max jogged to catch up with his friend, who had disappeared up a small path. On either side were palm trees and brightly flowering shrubs. “Wait up!”
In a matter of moments, Max emerged from the trees to see a large man taking a run-up toward a turquoise swimming pool, and Godfredo standing poolside, his arms open wide. Plush, five-seater sofas and an assortment of cane chairs were arranged around the pool. Most of them were occupied by guests in little more than swimwear.
“Max!” Godfredo crowed. “Welcome to your home for the next six months!”
A moment later, as the running man’s substantial body bombed the water, the two friends were drenched.
Having removed his shoes and replaced his wet clothing with a dry t-shirt and shorts, Max left his villa. There was no lock on the door and, briefly, he wondered where they were going to set up their office: to house all the equipment required to complete the job. Much of it was expensive, and had to be shipped in especially. Max only hoped Godfredo had this under control.
As he returned to the pool, he could see the party was in full swing. Music was pumping, and people were spilling from the villa into the well-kept garden that separated the main building from several more smaller houses.
As he passed a jacuzzi, Max scanned the faces for Godfredo. He nodded politely to two women in scanty bikinis. They slid, golden-limbed and giggling, into the effervescent water.
On the far side of the pool was a long, laden buffet table, and Max saw his friend.
Godfredo was helping himself to a bowl of long, coarsely cut white chips that Max knew to be yucca.
“What are we celebrating?” he said, as he approached.
Godfredo looked up and waved over a waiter. “You, of course!”
Max laughed. “No, really. What’s the event?” He took the glass of champagne that was thrust into his hand.
“It’s the warm-up,” Godfredo said. “We’ll have a proper party when your colleagues arrive.”
“A proper party, eh?” Max smiled, unsure what to say. He had to admit, this wasn’t exactly where he’d envisaged he’d be on his first evening in Panama.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” A woman standing at Godfredo’s side spoke softly. She put out her hand in the manner of someone who expected it not to be shaken, but kissed. Max obliged.
“Max,” he said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“My name’s Sofia.” She held his gaze while she put out her other hand, palm up, to Godfredo. Godfredo placed on it a small plate, piled with something orange, flattened, also fried. She offered the plate to Max. “You like patacones?”
Godfredo laughed. “Don’t ask him! He wouldn’t know a vegetable from a loaf of bread. He eats Marmite and baked beans!”
Sofia looked confused.
“Guilty as charged,” Max said. “I’m English.” When she smiled, he took a morsel from the plate she offered, and tasted it.
“They’re plantains,” Sofia said. “A type of banana. In Panama, we only eat them after they’re cooked.”
“And in Colombia?” Godfredo put his hand on the nape of her neck.
Sofia smiled and turned to look up at him. “You better watch out. Colombians eat anything.”
Godfredo slapped her on the behind. “Ve a buscar a sus amigas. Nos encontramos en el jacuzzi.”
She walked away, unhurried, the movement of her hips accentuating her tiny waist.
Fighting the urge to stare, Max turned to Godfredo. “And how long have you known Sofia?” he asked.
Godfredo pulled a cigar from his pocket. He held the flame from his lighter at its tip and sucked. “Long enough to know she’s worth every penny.”
Max considered his friend’s words. Slowly, he chewed on the remainder of the plantain; it wasn’t sweet, but it wasn’t unpleasant. He looked around, wondering how many of the women on that manicured, Bermuda grass were paid to be there.
But perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised at Godfredo’s arrangement with Sofia: Godfredo had come back to school one year with stories of a trip to his father Paco’s native Argentina, and how Paco had booked and paid for a woman to visit Godfredo one night. Max’s jaw had hung open, in turn horrified and fascinated by Godfredo’s apparent ease with the entire set-up.
“Hey, you remember the old bunker at school? Under the ice hockey field?” Godfredo interrupted his thoughts.
“Sure.” Max cast his mind back. He remembered the bunker, because it had been the ice hockey team’s change room in winter; a relic from the Second World War, buried under the alpine slopes.
“You remember how fat that door was?”
“Two feet of solid concrete.”
“And you remember I got locked in there one night? I was supposed to be in detention, and if I didn’t show, they were gonna expel me from school.”
Max laughed. “I remember. I even ran to the village and threw clods of dirt at that girl’s window to get her attention—what was her name—?”
“Susanne Testa.”
“Susanne Testa! That’s right! Because I thought you’d nicked off down to her house without permission.”
“She was beautiful, though, wasn’t she?”
Max laughed again. “I honestly don’t remember! I just know I was the sucker who got in trouble when her dad couldn’t find her. That man had the loudest bloody voice I’ve ever heard, and then some! I think the whole village could hear him.”
“Yeah, well, it’s probably good he never found out she was with me in the bunker all along.”
“Yes. And may I remind you that you’d have both starved to death in there if I hadn’t worked out where you were?”
Godfredo roared with laughter. “Good old Max! You always had my back!”
“Yes, I bloody did,” Max said. “And you had mine, Fredo.”
Spontaneously, Godfredo hugged Max. “I’m really happy you�
�re here, hermano.” He broke away and slapped Max on the shoulder. “We shouldn’t have waited so long to get in touch again.”
Watching his friend, now, as Godfredo followed Sofia toward the jacuzzi, Max smiled. It was good to see him again.
He downed another champagne, letting the mellifluous sea breeze wash over him, before another thought hit him.
Alexandra Wong.
Holy hell. What was she going to make of all this? Of Sofia?
He placed his glass on the table.
Chapter Thirteen
Contodora Island, Panama
DEAR MAX. GLAD YOU GOT THERE SAFE. YOUR NOT MISSING MUCH. PISSING WITH RAIN HERE. SARAH DROPPED OFF SOME BOXES FOR YOU. FROM ALAN.
The email had been in Max’s inbox when he logged on early the next morning. It was all caps-lock.
Max knew Alan’s dyslexia and his apparent lack of desire to conform to grammatical standards had always bothered his parents—Ed Burns, in particular, who’d cared deeply about apostrophes—but Max found his uncle’s reliably dreadful spelling oddly reassuring. He’d spent many years as a teenager being handed scribbled shopping lists that included tomatoe sauce, margerine, viniger, and suchlike.
It wasn’t until he’d responded to all his emails that Max realized there had been no word from Sarah.
But what had he expected? Her last correspondence—barely a week ago—had been definitive.
“Everyone’s telling me I should be angry. But I’m just lost. Please don’t contact me again.”
Max closed the laptop, and padded across the apartment-style villa toward the door. He slipped on his shoes.
Outside, the morning was fresh. Already there was a slight breeze: a reminder that the wind and the elements keep a different timetable than the rhythms of humanity.
As he knocked on the broad, timber door of Godfredo’s villa, he could hear various birdcalls and the sound of waves on the shore. Once more, his spirits lifted.
“Door’s open!”
Max stepped inside.
“I told you, Dad, everything is under control.” Godfredo was seated in front of a laptop, and he didn’t look relaxed.
Max raised a hand in silent greeting.
Godfredo looked at him briefly.
“I gotta go, Max is here. I’ll go through it with you later.” He ended the call. “Fuck me.” He shook his head and stood up. “Hey, hermano.” He was wearing a short dressing-gown with someone else’s initials on it. “You gave up early yesterday,” he said. “Partying not your thing these days?”
“More like jetlag’s not my thing.”
“Fair enough. So there is room for improvement. You had breakfast yet?” He disappeared into the bedroom and reappeared wearing a lemon polo shirt and a pair of shorts. “I’ll take you to the golf club.”
“It’s okay, Fredo. Thanks. I’ve had toast and coffee.” He paused. “I thought we could go through some of my ideas together before you meet the team today. So you know where we’re headed with this whole thing.”
Godfredo looked at him with a blank expression.
“You know—the Panama Canal? My team …? Arriving in one hour …?” Max teased. “I guess you’re still not a morning person.”
Godfredo gave him a hug and laughed. “Screw you, Burns. It’s way too early to be talking business.”
As they walked back to the main villa, Max saw many guests had stopped and dropped right where they had been standing last night, and hadn’t woken yet. Bodies were strewn around sofas and on lounge chairs by the pool. The large, pool-bombing man was asleep in the jacuzzi, head thrown back, mouth open.
Godfredo shook him, and he snorted loudly. “Jorge! Wake up! Time to go!” Godfredo snapped his fingers. “Rápido!”
The man smiled drunkenly and clambered out of the tub, leaving a sodden trail behind him.
Sofia appeared in the doorway to the main house, her long hair smooth and sleek in the morning sun. She looked composed and wide awake. She said something Max didn’t understand, and Godfredo started laughing. He pointed to the woman that was asleep on a nearby cane lounge chair and turned to Sofia.
“Despiértala. El ferry llega pronto.”
Sofia stopped and shook her by the shoulder.
Max checked his watch.
“Can I do anything?” he asked. He knew he sounded tense, but the ferry was due shortly.
“No need,” Godfredo said. He was pointing—apparently for Sofia’s benefit—at a few girls asleep on the lawn. He turned to Max. “Don’t worry, I said I’d organize everything, and I have.”
“Sure.” Max paused. “It’s just … Alex is a bit particular. She’ll want to know where the office is.”
Godfredo looked at him, nonchalant. “And you think she’ll be worried that she can’t prepare properly for one of the biggest structural engineering jobs on the planet because she has to work on an insanely beautiful tropical island?”
Max ignored Godfredo’s sarcasm, but his friend’s attention seemed to have wandered: Sofia was now standing by his side.
Max tried not to look at her breasts, which were barely concealed by a hot-pink crocheted bikini top. She wore minuscule cut-off denim shorts that Sarah would have called ‘barely a belt.’
“Should I go now?” Sofia smiled at Godfredo, tipping her head to one side.
Godfredo shook his head. “Get the girls to the pier. Throw everyone out as quick as you can so they don’t miss the boat.” He pointed at her. “But not you. You’re not leaving. I need you to show the engineers to their rooms.”
“Sure, baby.” Sofia nodded, glancing at Max momentarily. “You know it will cost you more if I stay.”
“Whatever.” Godfredo tapped his ostentatious wristwatch to indicate that time was ticking on. Sofia obediently disappeared.
Max wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “So I guess it’s not too early to discuss that kind of business,” he said, and for a moment wondered if he was crazy to be leaving the control of so many dynamics in Godfredo’s hands. He knew Godfredo could pull strings when he had to—he only hoped the strings weren’t solely attached to a pink bikini.
“Come on, hermano.” Godfredo waved impatiently for Max to follow him. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go see the office.”
They stopped in front of a long building with a thatched roof that could have been a spa or resort clubroom. Godfredo pulled a set of keys from his pocket.
“We don’t usually lock stuff up around here, but this one’s different.” With a flourish, he swung the door open, and held it to one side so Max could pass. “You wanted an office?”
As he stepped inside, Max’s mouth fell open.
“You sneaky bastard!”
The room was enormous, with ten or so large workspaces, two monitors on each desk—as requested. Vast, floor-to-ceiling windows gave an incredible, uninterrupted view across the sparkling Pacific Ocean.
“You can pay me back later,” Godfredo said.
“It’s perfect! Thanks, Fredo. Although I’m almost sure we won’t need so many desks.” Max turned to his friend, laughing.
“You’re not the only ones working here.” Godfredo snorted. “You really think I’d leave it up to a bunch of English academic farts to sort this thing out? I’ve got six local experts on contract as well. They’ll be coming in on the ferry tomorrow evening so you can all start work on Monday.”
“Oh.” Max smiled sheepishly. “Of course.” Abashed, he was sorry he’d doubted his friend, that he’d made so many assumptions. And Alex would be thrilled to have the local know-how at her fingertips.
Godfredo pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. He slapped Max on the back, seeming once more like his usual self. “Ferry’s nearly here,” he said.
Godfredo locked the door behind them, and the two of them headed across the lawns toward the northern entry to the property.
“I received details of the other bidding parties this morning,” Godfredo said. “Final list will be in th
e news on Monday, I suspect.”
“Let me guess … Americans, Japanese?”
“Yep. And Germany.”
“China?”
“Don’t know yet. But I bet they’ll be a tough competitor. Chinese companies already control the ports at both ends of the canal, so they’ve built up a lot of know-how here.” Godfredo stopped in front of a golf buggy and swung himself into the driver’s seat.
Max climbed in, and the tiny vehicle took off, its striped, canvas awning flapping as they whizzed down the drive and through the main gates.
The day was clear, and the ocean a deep turquoise as they made their way toward the shoreline.
Godfredo pulled up alongside the small cove in a parking bay, within twenty feet of the beach, where a cluster of last night’s partygoers stood in a huddle. A few lay on the white sand.
On board the sturdy yacht, Max could see Alex, along with Gian Tarocco—their systems optimization engineer—watching as the craft’s bow came to rest on the beach. Alex was still tightly bound up in her red trench coat, despite the heat. She wore a trucker’s cap pulled down low, and her eyes were on the shoreline, where Sofia herself was corralling girls in sarongs and bikinis toward the waterfront.
Godfredo stepped out of the buggy. “So let’s go meet your precious Alex and show her how it’s done on Contadora.” He readjusted his sunglasses. “Plus, I need lunch. I’ve got the mother of all hangovers. Sofia is one goddamn kinky—”
“Okay, dude!” Max cut him off, laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”
He followed his friend toward the pier.
“Who is this … person? And why are we following her?” Alex’s voice was a strained whisper. It bore a trace of anxiety.
Max slowed his pace a little. Tarocco was keeping up, but Alex’s ballerina shoes didn’t look ideal for beach walking, slipping from time to time, losing traction on the fine, white sand. She had finally shed her red trench coat and now carried it above her, in lieu of an umbrella.
Max looked at Sofia, walking with her usual easy gait ahead of them, her long hair cascading down her back. He was fairly sure she could hear Alex’s comments.
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