“Larry, we need to cover all angles. The canal’s expansion is too important to us to have it in the hands of amateurs. I suggest at a minimum John Siegel leave a skeleton team in Panama. Or we send someone who can keep abreast of the project and report on its progress. It’s a long shot, but it might be advisable.”
Hastily, Roebuck said, “No, no, leave it with me. I’ll talk to Siegel.”
Best not to get more people unnecessarily involved. With a project of this magnitude, the less complications the better.
He was reminded of the original canal and its fin de siècle journey, which had been one of disaster after disaster, with monsoons and flooding, collapsing banks of rock, thousands upon thousands of deaths, and massive, expensive machinery lost to bottomless swamps. After four leadership changes in as many years, and a sheer lack of a cohesive strategy, its chief engineer Goethels had been driven mad. The project quite simply broke his spirit.
Roebuck wanted none of that.
Eisenhower cut through his thoughts: “Keep me posted.”
The line went dead.
Roebuck exhaled.
When he looked up, his assistant, Summers was standing in the center of the room.
“Heavens to Betsy! You’re like a cat burglar, boy!”
“Sorry, Sir.” Summers was clutching something in his hand. “A new lapel pin,” he said. “I had it made for tonight. For the Presidential Palace.” He seemed excited as he handed Roebuck a small American flag pin.
Roebuck wondered briefly if he should have included the lad in the President’s typically generous guest list quota for tonight’s ceremony. No doubt there would be swathes of young Smithsonian scientists of all descriptions, as well as local dignitaries and ambassadorial entourages.
“Your wife is waiting in the car.” Summers said. “Have a wonderful time, Sir.”
As Summers left the room, Roebuck opened the door to his en suite, and stood in front of the mirror.
Not bad for his age.
He looked good.
Musing now at his reflection, he considered that, yes, perhaps Summers deserved a night out. He could watch and learn. See how it’s done at state events.
With a sudden surge of beneficence, he hollered, “Summers!”
Carefully—proudly—he affixed the ambassadorial pin to his lapel.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Casco Viejo, Panama City, Panama
“What the actual bloody hell is going on?”
Max had just tied his second shoelace, and was seated, wearing full black tie, on the end of his bed in the hotel room.
He was glad he couldn’t see Alexandra Wong’s face right now.
“Alex, I’m sorry, I don’t have answers for you—”
“Well, that makes two of us. Three-point-six billion? Three, Max?”
“It’s nearly four—” Max didn’t even know why he was bothering to defend the figures. He rubbed his forehead.
“What planet have you been living on? I warned you, didn’t I? About your so-called ‘friend’ Godfredo?”
“We won, Alex. Our design won, by a hundred points. Aren’t you even a little bit pleased about that?”
“Just … stop it! Stop it! You know what I mean. The risk here is enormous. What if you can’t finish the project because you run out of funds?”
“Alex, stop worrying. Seriously. We’re the engineers, here. I know it seems like an overly optimistic budget, but I have no doubts that Paco knows his way around the industry. He has done this his whole life—”
“Have you talked to him? What does he have to say for himself? And what about Godfredo?”
“I haven’t been able to reach Godfredo, nor Paco—”
“Well, that’s convenient—”
“… but I’ll be seeing them shortly, and I promise I’ll get you a detailed breakdown.”
“No.” Alex’s voice was firm. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to find someone else if you stay in Panama. I don’t want my name associated with this.”
“Alex, come on! We’ve come this far …”
All of a sudden, Max felt a wave of exhaustion roll over him. “Can we do this later, Alex? My ride’s about to arrive. I need to get to the signing ceremony.”
There was no response.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said. “We put in a fantastic submission. You should be here to celebrate with us.”
He ended the call, and looked out the window, across the hotel courtyard. The pool sat deserted, its green-and-white striped umbrellas rocking in the sea breeze.
He made his way to the door.
Outside, the sun was nowhere to be seen due to the heavy canopy of clouds. The air was suffocatingly hot and humid, the ground still wet from the afternoon’s torrential rain. Max regretted putting on his jacket. It was like being in a sauna.
Again, he tried to put together cohesive thoughts so he would have something to say to Godfredo and Paco. But the experience of the last couple of hours had left him feeling nothing short of schizophrenic.
The reality was, he had no idea what he’d say. Especially to Godfredo, who’d simply disappeared shortly after the announcement, leaving him alone to deal with the press.
A black limousine pulled up alongside him, and the rear window slowly slid down.
“Get in, son.” Paco’s face appeared, and he waved Max toward the vehicle.
Max climbed in.
“Where’s Godfredo?” he asked tightly.
Paco let out an exasperated, “Pfft!”
Max felt his hackles rising. “What does that mean?”
“He’s got a headache.”
It must be a helluva headache. Instinctively, he reached for his phone.
“I wouldn’t bother. He’s not answering.”
Regardless, Max dialed.
He waited as the phone rang. And rang. And rang out.
“Don’t worry about Godfredo. He’s a big boy. He’ll be on his feet again soon. He’s a Roco through and through.”
So it would appear.
They drove the short distance to the Presidential Palace in silence and, as they approached the gate, the driver lowered his window. He spoke with the armed guard, who waved them through.
Max wasn’t even sure where to start, but he knew that if he didn’t ask now, the two of them would be swept into the signing ceremony, and he’d have no chance of getting answers.
The car came to rest behind another limousine, next to the stone steps that led to the majestic whitewashed palace. Three men jumped out of the car ahead of them and posed, all smiles, for a photo opportunity.
“Paco, what happened with the numbers?” Max cut to the chase.
Paco looked surprised. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I’m asking.”
“That budget was based on your calculations,” he said.
“No, it wasn’t.”
A doorman reached for Paco’s door. Paco slammed on the lock and looked at Max.
“Actually, it was. Your figures are solid. But I’ve been in this business for a long time, and I know it’s dog-eat-dog. In this case, I took your calculations into consideration and I put together a winning budget.”
Several horns were now honking behind them. The doorman wrestled with Paco’s door, and gave up.
The limousine inched forward to meet the red-carpeted steps.
Max looked directly at Paco. “I know how much work is required for a project of this size, and I’m prepared to step up, to do my part. I only hope you know what you’re doing with the allocation of funds. Because from where I’m sitting, it looks unrealistic.”
“Max,” Paco said. His tone was fatherly. “I understand you know the theory. And you are extremely clever. But—despite what you say—I also know that neither you nor Godfredo have real-world experience on this scale. You need to trust that I’ve been in this arena for decades. And I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize this project’s success. If anything, I see this as the chan
ce to show the world what CISCO Construction was born to do.” He paused. “You probably always wondered why I am so tough on Godfredo.”
Max waited silently.
“It’s because I want him to succeed. Did you know CISCO once belonged to Godfredo’s mother and her family? And after doing a spectacular job of running the company into the ground, she and her brothers left me with the responsibility of cleaning up the mess. Which I did, quite successfully, as you can see.” Paco’s fist was on the seat between them. “And as she seemed to have no interest in us any more, it was up to me to bring up Godfredo.”
Slowly, Max nodded.
“Max,” Paco said, “you and Alex did one hell of a job on the plans. I know your parents would be proud to see what you’ve achieved.”
He reached out and placed a hand on Max’s shoulder.
“Anyhow,” Paco continued, “this budget wasn’t Godfredo’s call in the end. It was mine. Me: Paco Roco. And I take full responsibility for that.”
“Okay, then.” Max exhaled. “But if you lie to me again, Paco, I can promise you, I’ll be on the next flight back to London.”
“Of course.” Paco nodded. He unlocked his door, and the valet finally had success.
Relief, along with a wave of tropical heat, rolled into the car.
Godfredo had nothing to do with it.
Max stepped out of the car and, alongside Paco, made his way up the marble steps.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Casco Viejo, Panama City, Panama
The bourbon had worked its magic.
Godfredo felt nothing.
He stepped back unsteadily, the full weight of his body now resting on the wall.
Tentatively, he closed the door.
“How do you like it, Señor?”
Trying to focus, Godfredo turned to the figure who stood in the center of the room.
He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t.”
“I’m sorry, Señor, you don’t … what?”
Fumbling, Godfredo undid his belt. “I want someone else …”
He struggled with the buckle; he struggled with his words.
“I want you …” He hiccupped. “I want you to feel what it’s like.”
There was silence.
“I want you to be a steaming pile of shit, I want to tell you to do things you don’t want to do. All … the fucking … time.” The belt came loose in his hand.
“Okay. You like it rough.” The figure—a young man—ripped off his shirt to reveal a surprisingly buff set of muscles. Standing there with a vacuous grin, he looked like a cartoon superhero with acne.
“No, you dipshit,” Godfredo roared. “I don’t want to screw you! I’m not gay!”
“Then …?”
“Get on your knees, like a fucking dog.”
The man got onto all fours on the bed. “Like this?” He flexed like a Chippendale.
Godfredo raised his arm, the belt in his fist. “I’m gonna …”
The man looked at him, expectantly. “Sí?”
A wave of nausea hit him, and Godfredo fell to his knees. He felt water on the back of his hands before he realized he must have been crying.
“I can’t do it,” he sobbed. “I’m not like him. I can’t do it.”
The young man turned and sat on the edge of the bed. “Whoa. You okay?” He leaned forward and put out a hand.
“Get out! Get the fuck out!”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Palacio de las Garzas, Casco Viejo, Panama City
Slowly, Max looked up.
Several columns, encrusted with mother-of-pearl, reached from the marble floor of the patio courtyard toward the titanium-white plasterwork of a cloistered balcony. Up there, behind lush, green fern fronds, a string quartet was seated. Light, classical music could be heard above the gentle play of a water fountain.
Behind him, security guards stood discreetly to both the left and the right of massive iron doors.
A man approached, with clipboard in hand.
“Dr. Burns and Francisco Roco from the CISCO Consortium,” Paco announced. He sounded proud.
The man checked their names off the list.
A pair of white herons stood in the clear water at the base of the central marble fountain—the long-legged birds were unflustered, eyeing off curious guests.
“They live here since the 1920s,” the staffer said, with a broad smile. “Not the same birds, of course. But that’s why the Presidential Palace is called the Palacio de las Garzas.” He held out a hand to indicate that they could move into the residence. “Please make your way upstairs.”
Max followed Paco up the marble staircase, drawing nods and congratulatory smiles from the slow stream of other immaculately dressed guests: men in black tie, and women wearing all shades of rustling, exotic fabrics.
They reached the Andaluz courtyard, where a line of staff stood politely, hands behind their backs. All guests were ushered across the mosaic floor to the elaborate wooden doors of the Salón Amarillo.
As they drew closer, Max could see, in the room beyond, massive gilt-framed mirrors and velvet drapes and pelmets. Chairs that looked eighteenth century and French lined the periphery. Chandeliers and gilded wall appliqués shed a warm, glowing light.
A treasure trove of pure gold.
Suddenly, Max faltered: this was a world that was all too familiar. A world of stately homes and opulence and glamor. A world that disappeared abruptly after his parents went down in the helicopter.
Uneasy now, he cast his eye around the room. He was looking for someone; a single familiar face.
There were none. No Alex, no Godfredo, no Alan …
He turned to Paco, standing alongside him.
Paco nodded and smiled as Gonzáles took his hand.
“President Guardia, may I introduce Max Burns?”
Max was thrust forwards.
“This is indeed a wonderful day! Congratulations!” The President shook Max’s hand. His English was immaculate: almost Ivy League. He clasped Max’s upper arm with his free hand. “I know you will work your absolute hardest for Panama.”
Within seconds, the guests had erupted into spontaneous, full applause, and Max was swept into the center of the room.
A handsome man with graying hair and an American flag pinned to his lapel approached Max with a wide smile. He was tall and tanned.
“Dr. Burns. I’m Larry Roebuck. I’m the US Ambassador here in Panama.”
Max took his hand: Roebuck’s grip was strong and lightly pressing, so that his hand remained on top.
Not someone to be messed with. Max smiled. “Max Burns, sir. Very pleased to meet—”
“So you’re the man who beat our Siegel team fair and square.” It wasn’t a question.
“Guilty as charged,” Max said, with a smile. “Of course, it wasn’t just me: I have a great team alongside me.”
“Well, it’s an honor to meet you.”
Roebuck moved on to introduce himself to other guests.
A woman’s voice broke through. “Oh, there you are!”
Max turned to see a young woman at his side. Her sleek, wavy hair was pushed back over bare shoulders, and she wore a midnight-blue gown that fell in loose, satiny folds to the floor.
And there they were again: those beautiful blue eyes. It was the cute American who’d been carrying the rucksack at the auditorium.
She smiled, and her nose crinkled slightly. “I saw you looking at me this morning.”
“You did?”
“Sure. It’s what we humans do. It’s part of the mating ritual.”
He stifled a smile. “Seriously?”
Her laugh was self-effacing. “People expect scientists to say shit like that. It usually works.”
“And you’re a scientist …?” Max, smiling, held out his hand. “Max Burns.”
“Karis Deen—postgrad biologist with the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute, Department of Paleontology.” Her hand was warm.
“A
nything else?”
“No.” She laughed again. “But it’s nice to meet you, Max.” She paused. “And … why are you here, then? Did you do something important?”
A smile hovered on her lips, and Max realized she was teasing him.
She leaned in. “You can let go of my hand now.”
“Oh, God.” He released her. “I’m so sorry.”
She was so beautiful.
For a moment, he’d forgotten where he was.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.”
Startled, Max turned. The voice came from an older man: Asian, with a broad smile.
“But perhaps you weren’t expecting to be treated like such a rock star tonight?”
Karis returned the man’s smile. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Karis Deen. Smithsonian Institute.”
She put out her hand. The man was about Max’s own height, wearing rimless glasses. His eyes expressed warmth, the skin around them crinkled at the corners.
“Steven Zhang,” he said, bowing neatly. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Deen. And you …” he turned to Max, “are Dr. Max Burns.”
“And I … am going to find some food! Please excuse me.” Casting a smile over her shoulder, Karis walked away.
Max tore his eyes away from her, and could only hope the television crews would be allowed in to record the President’s address that night, because he had a suspicion he wasn’t going to remember a single word of it.
“I do apologize,” he said to Zhang. “Yes, of course: I’m Max Burns.”
Zhang smiled. “I’m very impressed with what you’ve achieved. I merely wanted to wish you well as you embark on this immense undertaking.”
“Thank you, Mr. Zhang.” Max tried to place Zhang’s accent. He sounded highly educated. Cambrian, even. “Have you been in Panama long?”
“Actually, no,” Zhang said. “I arrived last year.” He smiled. “Although I’d been planning to visit for many years. I dabbled in modern languages at Oxford, and often thought Panama would be one of the more interesting Spanish-speaking regions to explore.” He paused. “Do you speak Spanish?”
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