“Just give it a couple of days,” he said, gently. “Godfredo’s a good guy. He knows what he’s doing. Even if it looks like utter chaos from time to time.”
“Max, that’s the thing: I don’t think he is a good guy. You may have known him when he was a teenager, but …” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. She wiped a tear that had dripped to her chin. “He doesn’t like me. He’s made that clear.”
“Did something happen that I need to know about?”
“No, no, it’s just … It’s the whole package. He doesn’t show up for meetings. He doesn’t even start work until lunchtime. His work ethic … it’s really messed up. I don’t trust him.”
Max frowned, and turned toward the beachfront.
Again, he wondered: had he been wrong in his assessment of his old friend?
He turned back to her. “I hear what you’re saying, Alex, but he always delivers on time, and the figures seem to check out so far. You and me—we’re used to working together. But, in reality, we live in a small, academic bubble, and it’s easy to forget that’s not the way everyone operates.” He paused. “You want me to talk to him?”
“People don’t change just because someone wants them to. If I could have done anything about it, I would have. But I can’t …” She faltered momentarily, her voice breaking once more. “I can’t deal with this level of unpredictability any more. I’m so tired.”
As a fresh round of tears flowed, Max moved across to her and put an arm around her. “Come on. It’s okay.” He could feel the tension in her small frame. “We can do this. We’re so close to the finish line.” He paused. “I’d really hate to see you leave now.”
She sniffed, wiping her nose on the back of her hand.
He stepped back once more and looked at her. “At this stage, we need all hands on deck if we’re going to submit on time. So please stick it out, Alex. I’d really appreciate it.”
After a pause, she said, “I’ll give it a few more days. But only because you’re asking me to.” She wiped her nose again. “But if it doesn’t improve, I’m leaving.”
Max crossed the room and looked out at the Pacific Ocean.
He wondered what Alan would make of the view.
Sighing, he turned his mind to the issue at hand. In many ways, he could see Alex was right. They were at the mercy of Godfredo’s unhurried approach to work. Yet Godfredo had organized the whole set-up on Contadora, and he’d been generous, too: small details had been taken care of, like good wines and interesting local delicacies that appeared daily alongside clearly written-up agendas. And—perhaps purely as a joke, but so what?—there was always a fresh loaf of sliced, white bread and a new can of baked beans in the kitchen storeroom, on a special shelf, labelled: Max.
He was reticent to believe Godfredo was as negligent as Alex made him out to be. If anything, he had observed his friend to be exactly as he had been all those years ago: reliable—but only if you looked hard enough. He’d certainly been smart enough to know that on an island with no bars or restaurants, the only thing you could do was relax … and do the work.
And, indeed, they’d powered through, focusing on and creating what was undeniably their best work to date. And now they were on the home run. With only a matter of weeks before they were to submit their bid, he crossed his fingers that Alex would be able to go the distance.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Casco Viejo, Panama City, Panama
Lunch was Larry Roebuck’s favorite event. Especially when it was at the American Trade Hotel in Panama’s Old Town.
The Hotel had been there since the early days of the Panama Canal and had recently been reopened, whitewashed, and luxuriously refurbished in a way that nurtured its 1920s heritage. The splendid building could now be seen clearly, unimpeded by the heavy, hanging snarls of black telephone and electricity wires—most of them illegally connected—that still marred the rest of the city’s streets. The Old Town had been a veritable construction site for almost two years as the streets were dug up to make way for the relocation of the cables. The effect, Roebuck believed, was worth it: better to remove these kinds of ugly complications from the public eye. Bury them underground.
As he made his way toward the foyer that day, Roebuck waved benevolently at a local man who was often to be seen out front. Rumor had it the man was an ex-gang member from before the area had been cleaned up.
Yes, there was certainly something about a building with a history. It drew in those who cared about its story: people who knew that the past held the key to the future.
Larry Roebuck was proud to be one of those people.
“Welcome, Mr. Ambassador!” He was greeted enthusiastically by the doorman, and cool air washed over him as he stepped into the foyer.
He was shown to his regular table, alongside a broadleafed palm tree.
He scanned the room, making sure a warm smile was etched on his face as he greeted people in passing. The wonderful thing about dining alone—within arm’s reach of numerous foreign embassies and Panama’s own Presidential Palace—was that you never knew who might show up and take a seat in the chair opposite.
He was unprepared for today’s visitor.
“Mr. Ambassador.”
It was John Siegel Junior. He was carrying a briefcase, and he looked to be on his way out of the hotel.
“John! Good to see you!” Roebuck stood, delivering an expansive smile. “I’m looking forward to our meeting later today.”
“Yes. However, seeing as I’m here …”
But Roebuck had no intention of talking business over lunch.
“Let’s leave all that until this afternoon, shall we?” Roebuck smiled and said nothing more.
Siegel didn’t move. “That’s fine. You can tell me now. Why not? It’ll save us a meeting this afternoon.” His face, as usual, was expressionless.
Roebuck marveled at the man’s tunnel vision; his utter focus on information and efficiency. And he knew when he’d met a brick wall.
“Very well,” he said. “Have a seat.”
Siegel sat on the edge of the vacant chair.
Roebuck lowered his voice. “I’ve been tasked with informing you that you will have financial backup if you need it.”
“What?” Siegel’s expression became contorted. Roebuck assumed it was a kind of ecstatic smile.
“You’ve no doubt had time to think about it over the past few days,” Roebuck continued. “So what do you think? What price will you be offering? I’ll need to let Washington know.”
Siegel had by now flushed a decent shade of red. “Yes, yes,” he blustered. “We have been over the numbers. I must say, I’m—”
“And?” Roebuck interrupted, enjoying for a moment the fact that Siegel was off balance.
“Four billion.”
“Sorry? Did you say four billion?”
All of a sudden, Roebuck was grateful for the general backdrop of noise: this wasn’t a conversation that should have been held in public. He lowered his voice. “Are you sure?”
Siegel nodded. “My CFO and I are in agreement that without subsidy, we can go for five billion—maybe—and we might be in with a chance. But if the government could come up with a billion-dollar subsidy, we could secure it with four.”
“That’s more than two billion less than your original amount. It’s an awfully big cut.”
“Sir, you asked me what it would take, and I’m telling you.” He could see Siegel was becoming agitated.
Roebuck now shifted in his seat. “John, I have to say, I’m uncomfortable about this.”
“Of course you are. You’re an ambassador, not a contractor.”
Roebuck ignored his terse tone, and persisted: “It was risky enough taking it to Washington,” he said, “but if you push it …?” He exhaled, and once more glanced around the restaurant. “It could be seen to be taking advantage of the government’s good will.”
Siegel frowned. “Like I said, we made the assessment. And, given the cir
cumstances, we believe this is what it will take.” He stood up, clutching his briefcase.
“And if one of the other consortia go lower?” Roebuck asked.
Amazingly, Siegel emitted a short laugh. “They won’t. Nobody in their right mind would ever bid lower than that.” He nodded to Roebuck, serious once more. “I told you the government would see the big picture.”
Roebuck baulked, but restrained himself. “Indeed. And I thank you for drawing it to my attention. I take it you won’t need to meet with me this afternoon?”
Siegel shook his head. “I have everything I need.”
“Very well,” Roebuck said, as Siegel stood up. “And, John, if I may … I’d strongly urge you to make sure your own proposal and your documents are secure. As we now know, we cannot trust anybody.”
Siegel simply nodded and walked directly toward the main entrance. Through the huge, floor-to-ceiling windows, he could be seen climbing into his car out front of the hotel.
Exhaling, Roebuck turned away. His gaze landed directly ahead of him, where a mural stretched the length of the wall above the bar. It depicted a long lane of aquamarine water and an art deco style cargo ship passing through.
For the first time in many months, Roebuck felt a niggling unease, and wondered if he’d perhaps bitten off more than he could chew.
He pushed it aside: if Siegel was nothing else, at least he was determined. You could only call that a strength. The right man for the job, without a doubt.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Obarrio, Panama City, Panama
Godfredo was impatient for Sofia to finish.
He looked up at the high ceiling with its wooden ceiling fan as it rotated, so slowly, and counted to ten.
Finally—finally—she swallowed.
She sat back with a long sigh.
“So?” Godfredo now thumped the table, causing the cutlery to jump. “I’ve been waiting long enough.”
“Where do you want me to start?”
“You can start by telling me who’s competing.”
“Okay, I haven’t found out anything about the Germans or the Japanese yet.”
“But they’re definitely entering?”
She nodded, and took another spoonful of strawberry mousse.
“And the Chinese?”
Her usually smooth forehead was now furrowed. “Baby, I don’t think they’re entering a bid. Unless they’re working remotely or in some secret hideaway somewhere.”
“What do you mean? Of course they’re entering.”
Sofia shrugged. “Panama City is a small town. I’d have been able to find out about it if they were, I’m sure of it.”
Godfredo looked at her, exasperated. “Okay. Whatever you say.” But he didn’t believe it. There was no way on earth the Chinese wouldn’t want to be in the game. Not when they already operated both the Atlantic and the Pacific ports at either end of the canal.
“So what did you actually find out?” he asked.
“Well, I met up with an American. He was nice. I liked him. He reminded me of one of my uncles in Colombia.”
“Oh yeah? Come on, Sofia, what else?” Godfredo was fit to flip his lid: the woman told stories even slower than she walked.
“We went to a bar and we talked.” Sofia leaned forward in her chair, put her elbows on the white table cloth and looked longingly at her empty dessert bowl.
“You talked?” Godfredo asked. “That’s it? You didn’t have to, you know, seduce him with chains and a whip? Break into his room at midnight with a flashlight?”
She looked at him impassively. “No, not really.”
He sat back in his chair. “Okay. So give me the figures then.” He didn’t bother keeping his voice down: they were the last two lunchtime customers in the usually busy downtown restaurant, a few blocks from his hotel.
“Four billion.”
“Four billion?” His laugh exploded. “You’re so funny! That’s hilarious!”
She tipped her head. “Godfredo, that’s the figure.”
“No. Can’t be.” Godfredo whistled through his teeth and leaned back in the cane chair. “The numbers we came up with are pretty fucking low. But four billion? That would be insane.” He started laughing again, and looked at Sofia. “Maybe you should do less talking and more screwing. I think somebody’s taking you for a ride.”
“I don’t think so.” Sofia’s expression remained pleasant, although he could see the flint in her eyes.
“So tell me: who is this mysterious client?”
“My business relies on confidentiality. You know that.”
“Whatever.” He’d had enough of noncompliance for the day. He signed the bill, and addressed Sofia as the waiter left. “I hope your little chat was discreet. I wouldn’t want the Americans getting suspicious. Even if they were just spinning you a bunch of bullshit.”
“Of course, baby.”
He stood, and looked at her sideways. He shook his head. “Extra skills, my ass. Get your bag, Tiger. You’re going back to Contadora. I don’t want you let loose on the streets of Panama. At least, not until our bid is safely signed, sealed and delivered.”
He watched her gather her jacket and her handbag: one of those ridiculous Gucci or Prada type affairs that matched her shoes.
“Four billion!” He started laughing again and helped her put on her jacket. “If we go any lower than four-and-a-half, all my profit will be gone. Every single fucking penny.” He pulled her toward him so that her handbag was mashed between them. He kissed her neck. “We wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”
“No, baby.”
He slapped her on the buttock and the two of them made their way to where his driver was waiting with the car by the front entrance.
“Take her to the ferry,” he instructed Fuentes.
His phone started ringing.
Sofia turned to him with a pout. “You’re not coming with me?”
Godfredo shook his head as he took his phone from his pocket. “I got a few big meetings lined up. I’ll be there in a few days.”
He waved his hand briefly and answered the call. It was Paco.
“Dad, I’m on my way—”
“You see the news just now?”
“No, what?” Godfredo started moving up the street briskly.
“The Chinese aren’t entering a bid for the canal expansion!”
“What?” Godfredo stopped walking.
“The Chinese aren’t entering a bid! Fredo, this is the best fucking news I’ve had all year.”
Immediately, Godfredo turned in his tracks. He scanned the street. The car, along with Sofia, was just disappearing around the corner.
“Jesus. She was right,” he murmured.
“Who was right?”
“Never mind. I’ll see you in a couple minutes.” Godfredo killed the call and moved fast up the street toward the hotel.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Contadora, Pearl Islands, Panama
June, 2009
“Where the bloody hell is Godfredo?!” Max added yet another box of paperwork to the pile that sat in the first of four golf buggies, and ran a hand through his hair.
He hadn’t showered. For that matter, he hadn’t slept. It was only twenty-four hours until they were due to submit their bid; they were to convene at the National Bank of Panama—Banco Nacional—along with all the other competing consortia to hand over the technical documents.
“Is it really a surprise to you that he’s not here helping us?” Alex was struggling under the weight of two boxes. “Maybe it finally dawned on him that he was better off running a brothel, so he stayed on the mainland and—”
“Really?!” Max, irritated, cut her off. He had jogged across to help her, but now he stood looking at her; the urge to assist her had dissipated. “Alex, please. We’re all tired. And this negative attitude really isn’t helping.”
Alex glared at him. “Whatever. Can you take one of the boxes?! I have to go. The plane leaves in fifteen minutes.
”
Max took both boxes, and loaded them into the second buggy.
When he returned, Alex was leaning down, holding her calves tightly. They were still covered in sandfly bites, many of them weeping and inflamed. “Argh!” She stood up, and strode in a tight circle. “Bloody chitras! They’re driving me crazy!”
A group of men was approaching—the buggy drivers—and Max checked the boxes once more to be sure they were secured. He didn’t want to hear that their months of work had fallen off the back of the buggy, only to be swept out to sea.
“You can take them now!” Max called out to the men. “Gracias!”
He turned back to Alex and hugged her tightly. “You did a fantastic job.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry I can’t stay for the submission.”
Max shook his head. “I understand. You stuck it out till the end, and I’m really grateful for that. Call me when you get back.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
The men had started up the buggies and the first three were wending their way towards the road that led to the island’s tiny runway, where the plane was waiting to receive the cargo.
The one remaining man had taken Alex’s suitcase and was shoving it, on top of the boxes, into the final buggy.
“Hey! Be careful!” Alex moved hastily toward the tiny vehicle. She turned to Max and waved. “Fingers crossed!”
Max watched as the final buggy moved off.
“Wait! Alex! I have something for you!”
He swung around to see Sofia running towards him. She wore a long, green slip, and she was holding something in her hand, above her head.
The buggy slowed, and Alex hopped out, her face anxious. “I forgot something, didn’t I?”
“This is for you.” Sofia approached Alex, breathless. “I hope this will help with the pain.” She thrust a small packet into her hand.
“I … er … that’s very kind of you, Sofia.” Alex looked at the package. She slid it into her handbag.
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