“I hope you have a good trip home.” Sofia waved to the driver, and the two of them watched as the buggy took off once more.
Max turned to Sofia, puzzled.
“I didn’t know you and Alexandra Wong were close.”
Sofia shook her head as she walked toward him. “We weren’t. I thought she could use some lotion. For her chitra bites,” she said. She tipped her head to one side. “You look terrible.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Max laughed.
As they started back toward the villa, Max felt her eyes on him. She smiled. “You are a really nice guy, Max,” she said.
“That’s very kind of you, Sofia—”
“Yes, but I’m not really sure if you like women.”
Max started laughing. “Of course I do!”
She offered a short, “Hmm.”
“What?” He looked at her. He had no idea where this was going.
“I’m not offended,” she said. “I think it’s sweet.”
“What?”
“Well, you don’t look at me like the other men on the island do.”
“Right. I see.”
“Shall I ask one of my friends to come over? You’re staying in the Casco Viejo tonight, right? Perhaps a massage—?”
Max laughed loudly, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, Sofia. I’m fine.” He grinned. “Really. I’m all fine.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Banco Nacional, Panama City, Panama
Come on, Godfredo! Where are you?
Max looked out across the crowd that had gathered outside Panama’s Banco Nacional. He held his cellphone to his ear: Alex was on the line from her home in London.
“No sign of him yet,” he said.
“Why am I not surprised?”
Max ignored her tone and craned his neck to get a better view of the front entrance. A big screen and loudspeakers had been set up in the square outside. Beyond the Spanish-influenced bell towers and domes, seabirds circled and the sky was already heavy, promising the usual wet season storms.
Inside, where he stood, reporters and photographers were clustered around a lectern. Rows of seating were positioned in the center of the large, plush foyer, and members of the competing consortia were gradually working their way to the chairs.
Max knew he’d have to be sitting in one of those seats in the next few minutes—with or without Paco and Godfredo—because this was it. This was submission day. The day all teams were to hand over their boxes of technical documents, and deposit their financial proposals—in official, cream envelopes—into the highly secure vault of Panama’s Banco Nacional, where they would be kept for several weeks while the technical submissions were assessed.
Except—so far—Max was the only senior member of the British consortium present. And Paco and Godfredo were supposed to be bringing the official envelope with their offering price.
He looked at his watch once more, as the Director of the Banco Nacional arrived with the Commissioner of the Panama Canal himself—José Gonzáles.
Together, they stood next to and inspected three rows of trolleys, on which sat fifty or more boxes: blueprints, plans and reports that comprised proof of the digital submissions from all the teams. The paperwork and hard copies were to be handed over purely for safekeeping: in order that nobody could tamper with their own—or others’—original technical plans.
“No messages?” Alex asked.
Max looked back out at the street. “They’ll be here.”
“You hope.” She scoffed. “God, I can’t even tell you how happy I am to be back—”
“Wait! I see him! Gotta go, Alex. Talk later.” Max killed the call, and kept his eyes on his friend’s car as it turned the corner into the square.
As the car pulled up alongside the bank, Godfredo jumped out the passenger side. A young man who had been standing out front of the bank crossed the street and started chatting to Godfredo. Godfredo stopped, and laughed. He clapped him on the shoulder.
“Don’t stop walking, Fredo!”
Max ran from the bank, out into the street, and toward his friend.
As he got closer, he recognized the man with Godfredo. It was Eduardo: the concierge who had greeted him at the airport, all those months ago.
Paco emerged from the far side of the car and, with a curt nod to Max, made a beeline for the bank’s main entrance.
“Godfredo!” Max called, beckoning his friend.
Godfredo stopped chatting and waved. “Hey, Max!”
“Let’s go!”
“One minute, hermano, I haven’t seen Eduardo for weeks! You know Eduardo, right?”
“Fredo, where the hell have you been? They’re starting the bloody ceremony—”
“Relax. We went to the wrong branch of the bank. That’s all.” Godfredo now started walking, following his father toward the main entrance. “Are you coming, or what?”
“The wrong …? Oh, come on, Godfredo. The National Bank has no other branches.” Max threw his hands in the air. He jogged to catch up. Eduardo ran alongside, grinning.
As they reached the entrance, Godfredo flashed his ID and turned to Eduardo, bidding farewell in rapid Spanish. Eduardo waved cheerfully, and was soon lost in the crowd.
The security guard waved them past.
“You have the envelope?” Max asked.
“Dad has it, don’t worry.” Quickly, Godfredo scanned the room. “Eduardo was just telling me about a crazy gangster who just got released from prison. He used to live on the second floor of that big hotel around the corner—the American Trade Hotel—back when it was a gang squat. He says the guy had to dive out a second story window one day to escape being shot …” He pointed. “Dad’s saved us some seats over there.” He turned to Max. “The gangster guy got hit pretty bad, and now he can’t move one side of his body.” Godfredo limped a few steps, as if to show Max what he meant. “And his skull still moves if you press it here.” He pushed at his forehead with one finger. “Freaky story, right?”
Max’s mouth hung open. “And you’re telling me this … why?”
“Because you love that kind of shit. You should thank me for enriching your boring little academic life.” He pushed his way toward the free seats. Max followed.
As they sat down, Godfredo said, “Whoa. A lotta people here today. Where’s Dr. Wong? Counting the seconds so she can tell me how late I am?”
“She’s gone.”
“As in: she left because she wants to make us feel bad that we’re late?”
“As in: gone home. Back to England. Yesterday.”
“Huh.” Godfredo stopped. “Wow. She’s actually gone?” He’d clearly not been expecting that answer.
Max reached deep for patience. “She’s got a baby at home.”
“What?!”
“Yes. I think she prefers to spend time with her.”
Godfredo looked at him incredulously. “You’re telling me someone was willing to screw her?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Well, at least that explains why I stopped getting twenty emails every morning complaining about faulty air conditioning and the terrible food. Did you know hojaldras are one hundred percent devoid of nutrition? They’re basically powdered and fried dough. And you know how I know this? Wong. She wrote up a scientific analysis for me and left it on my desk.” He sighed, grinning. “I think I’m gonna miss her—”
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
Max elbowed Godfredo and nodded toward the podium.
The bank manager was on her feet. “I give you … the Commissioner of the Panama Canal … José Gonzáles!”
Spontaneously, the crowd outside started cheering.
Grinning, Max looked at Godfredo. “Here we go!”
Gonzáles moved to the microphone. “On behalf of the people of Panama, I hereby accept the technical submissions for the expansion of the Panama Canal!”
There were more cheers, cameras flashed, and television crews followed the uniformed Panama Canal Administration staff as th
ey wheeled the boxes of technical data into the bank’s elevator.
On a large screen behind the podium, Max watched their progress as, one load after another, all the trolleys were taken to the vault under the bank.
The Commissioner looked to the room once more. “I now ask the consortium delegates to submit the second part of their bid: their financial proposals.”
He turned to the bank manager, who stood by a plexiglass box at the side of the podium.
Silently, the first of the delegates walked to the front of the room and slid a cream envelope through the small letterbox slit at the top.
As the second delegate approached the box, a small hand movement from Paco caught Max’s eye: Paco was beckoning him forward.
Uncertain, he looked at Godfredo, but Godfredo’s eyes appeared to be on the bank manager’s legs.
Max stood and joined Paco at the side of the room. “Something wrong?” he whispered.
Shaking his head, Paco placed the cream envelope in Max’s hand.
“Paco, I—”
“You should be the one to represent the team.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am. It’s a big moment for CISCO. And we couldn’t have done this without you.” He nodded respectfully, and nudged him with his elbow. “Go. We’re the last one.”
Max turned and walked toward the box.
He slid the CISCO envelope in.
Spontaneously, the audience broke into applause, and got to their feet.
Once again, television crews followed, and all eyes were on the big screen behind the Commissioner as two armed security guards lifted the box and carried it to the vault.
As the vault door swung shut, the crowd outside the building erupted, and Commissioner Gonzáles’s voice boomed, amplified and ricocheting across the room and the street.
“I now officially declare the submissions process for the expansion of the Panama Canal closed!”
Triumphant, Max turned to look for Godfredo, but he was lost in the crowd.
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-Six
Casco Viejo, Panama City, Panama
July, 2009
“Well, Max, me lad … Thought you might like to know I’ve done some research on the world wide web.”
“You did? Where? At the library?”
“Yeah. They have one of them computers. So, I looked up the cruise last week. The one I told you about. ‘Caribbean Cruises: Every ship carries the key to your dreams.’”
“Sounds good. Is it a big ship?”
“Yes, it looks enormous. Like it could fit half of Wembley Stadium.”
“Fantastic! Did you look at any others?”
“I did. But this one’s a beauty! It’s got ‘Cinema under the Stars.’ That’s a fancy name for watching a movie on the deck at night.”
“Aha! Sounds perfect. Have you booked it?”
“Maybe next year … And when will you know if you’re staying on in Panama?”
“Couple of weeks. You seriously wouldn’t believe how much paperwork we had to submit for our entry. Boxes and boxes of the stuff!”
“Oh, Lord … Did I mention? Sarah sends her hellos.”
“Sarah?”
“Aye, she called a couple of times. Askin’ me how I’m doing on me own. I believe she’s missing you.”
“Oh. Did she say that?”
“No. But believe me, lad, in this world you don’t have to say stuff to say stuff.”
“Right. I hear you. Well, it was kind of her to check in with you … Alan, I’m on my way to dinner now with a couple of the engineers, so I’ll leave you in peace.”
“Right you are. Good luck, then, lad.”
“Thanks, Alan. We’ll need that luck. And lots of it.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Balboa, Panama City, Panama
August, 2009
It was standing-room only in the auditorium as people jostled, vying for position to get a good view of the stage.
Max cast his gaze across the crowd. He spotted Godfredo, a few feet from the center aisle, and waved. Godfredo beckoned and grinned, pointing to the camera crew that were stationed in the aisle.
“We’re gonna be on TV across the whole fucking world!” he said, as Max reached him.
Almost immediately, the vicinity was blasted with artificial light and a production assistant pushed back the crowd. When he was satisfied, he nodded to the camera.
The reporter held up her microphone. When she spoke, she had an American accent.
“I’m live here in the old American High School auditorium in Balboa Street, where we’re waiting on the arrival of the President of Panama, who will oversee the official announcement of the winning consortium for the expansion of the Panama Canal. I don’t need to tell you this is a huge day for the Panamanian people—indeed, for the world, and hopefully especially for the United States. Of course, the biggest surprise was that China is not competing, which has had everyone speculating over the past two weeks …”
Max looked across the aisle, to where the German engineering team stood together, smiling and waving German flags at the crowd.
“And here comes the official party!”
Camera crews moved like a shoal of fish as black-suited, wired-up bodyguards wearing sunglasses appeared alongside the Commissioner, José Gonzáles, and Fernando Guardia, Panama’s President.
Behind them, came Paco Roco and the heads of the other consortia.
They took their places onstage to a resounding applause.
“The show is about to begin!” Godfredo looked at Max with pure glee. “You ready, hermano?”
The Commissioner of the Panama Canal, José Gonzáles, now leaned into the microphone that stood center stage.
The crowd fell silent.
“Buenas tardes, damas y caballeros … Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen … and a warm welcome to our friends all over the world who are watching this momentous event via our live streaming.”
There was an outburst of cheering from the auditorium floor and Max thought, smiling, of Alan’s misspelled message, received early that morning: “Brake a leg young Max.” He doubted his uncle would be watching the ceremony, but you never know—they had televisions at the local pub, and it would only have been around ten p.m. back in England.
“It is now time to announce the winner of the bidding process for the Panama Canal expansion project!” Gonzáles smiled and nodded to the ongoing applause.
“It has been no small task to assess these submissions, and I thank firstly our team of experts for their willingness to oversee the process, and their dedication and diligence when making their decision.” He paused once more.
“I also thank each and every team for their patience, for assisting us with clarifications during the review process, and—today, of course—for accompanying me to retrieve the envelopes from the Banco Nacional.”
He stopped speaking as the screen behind him replayed the moment—less than thirty minutes ago—when the official party with armed guards retrieved the plexiglass box from the bank vault.
Max exhaled: had it really been only two weeks since the bids were lodged?
Gonzáles turned to the plexiglass box that now stood on a table in front of the President of Panama.
Inside the locked box, in clear view, lay the envelopes.
“The first-round scores for the technical challenge will now be announced.” Gonzáles held up his hand to quieten the crowd. “And shortly afterwards, President Guardia—”
He waited for the cheers to die down.
“President Guardia, the President of Panama, will oversee the opening of each envelope containing the price proposal. A full breakdown and analysis will be available on the Canal Authority website by five p.m. today.”
Godfredo slung his left arm over Max’s shoulder. “Buena suerte, hermano!” He gave Max’s bicep a quick punch.
Max grinned. “We’ve come a long way since the ice hockey team in high school, haven�
�t we?”
“Oh yes, indeed we have.”
Gonzáles cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, in every case, technical bids will receive a score that comprises forty percent of the overall score. Financial bids will receive a score comprising sixty percent of the overall score. Good luck to the bidding teams.”
The crowd grew silent.
“In fourth place, with a score of 3,755.5 is the consortium Tobiishi.”
The crowd applauded.
“With a score of 3,790.0 is the DBK consortium, with German contractors Löwenhof.” He looked up and cast his eyes across the auditorium.
“In second place, with a score of 3,890.5 …”
Max felt Godfredo’s arm tighten around his shoulders.
Gonzáles waited for the noise to die down. “In second place … the Siegel Group, from the United States of America!”
The crowd roared, and Gonzáles raised his voice.
“With a small margin and the highest score of 3,990.0 … CISCO, the consortium from Great Britain!”
As he spoke the last words, a simple slide appeared on the big screen.
1. CISCO consortium: 3,990.0
2. Siegel consortium: 3,890.5
3. DBK/Löwenhof consortium: 3,790.0
4. Tobiishi consortium: 3,755.5
Max’s jaw dropped. He looked at the stage, where Paco, nothing short of ecstatic, had his arms in the air.
As the crowd around them erupted, Godfredo and Tarocco leapt on Max, whooping.
“The highest fucking score on technical merits! Max, you’re a fucking genius!”
There were flashes all over the room, and Max could hear the American reporter behind him.
“And here’s the clincher: if the Americans don’t have the lowest price by a respectable margin, they’re out! It’s all over. They have only one chance, and it’s in one of those cream envelopes, up there …”
Godfredo took Max’s hand, raising it above their heads, and Max forced himself to breathe as flashlights blinded him.
“Hold your horses, Fredo,” Max said, laughing. “It’s still anyone’s game, if their price is lower than ours.”
The Expansion Page 10