“We don’t have information about your father or your mother.” Fisher interrupted her thoughts. Her tone was curious.
“I don’t have any, either. I only know what other people like my grandmother have told me.”
“And what did she tell you?”
“That my mother was a junkie and she OD’d. That she didn’t know who the father was.” In the stillness of the forest, the story died almost the instant it passed her lips. Karis gave a short laugh. “My grandmother used to say all kinds of whacko stuff.”
“Like?”
“Like, ‘You’re a mistake. You shouldn’t be here.’” Karis paused. “When I was a little kid, I didn’t understand that at all—that a real, live person could be a mistake, when they haven’t even had time to do anything in their life yet.” She gave a wry smile. “She also told me that when my mother was pregnant with me, she tried to kill me by stabbing herself in the belly with knitting needles.”
Fisher inhaled sharply. “She told you that?”
“Yeah. I don’t know if it’s true. Maybe it was. But after she said that, I decided everything that came out of her mouth was pretty much bullshit. Excuse my language.”
Fisher shook her head. “Did you ever see your mother again?”
“I only saw her twice, and both times she seemed surprised that I was still alive.”
“That must have been rough.”
“Honestly, it’s so long ago it feels like someone else’s life now. Or a movie.” Karis picked up the pace a little, to keep the chill at bay.
She looked at Fisher. The older woman had a thin film of sweat across her brow. She wondered if her story had somehow triggered something. But Fisher now turned to her with a gentle smile.
“I can see why you excel at your job,” she said. “It takes exceptional strength to have achieved what you’ve achieved. Especially to have made it as far as the Abbey.”
“Thank you, Ma’am.” Karis wasn’t sure what to say. She hadn’t spoken about her grandmother’s stories to anyone before, and she wasn’t sure how she felt. Vulnerable, perhaps. It wasn’t a bad feeling.
After a moment, she said, “Ma’am? Have you ever had doubts about your job?”
Fisher started laughing. “Of course. My whole life!” She turned to Karis. “Are you having doubts?”
Karis shook her head. “No. I just … I guess you’ve been in service a long time.”
Once again, Fisher laughed. “You could say that. It’s been over thirty years.” She smiled at Karis. “And of course I’ve had many doubts over the years. But I’ve never been particularly good with personal relationships. I’ve always looked for a group, rather than a mate. And probably that’s why I’ve been so successful. Lucky, even.” She glanced at Karis. “Love never obscured my view.”
She slowed the pace slightly. Karis fell into step.
“I was brought up by my father,” Fisher continued. “He was a very devoted man. He gave every spare minute of his time to the church. To drop-in centers, halfway houses. To people who had never quite managed to find their way. I admired him for that. And, at a certain point, I knew I had a choice: I could do as he did—devote my life to God’s work—or I could find something else.”
“Although religions are organized,” Karis said. “Their processes are tried and true.”
“Yes, they are. But underneath the attempts at organization—the politics and the ceremonies and the work—the church is fundamentally only trying to find a worldly way to live with gray areas. With God and love and fear, and suchlike. And I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you that there is no common language there. Which makes finding ways of achieving real, lasting impact very difficult. And very time-consuming.”
Karis waited for her to continue.
“Protecting the United States is tangible,” Fisher said. “And it’s a much-needed reality. So, when you ask me if I’ve ever doubted my job, I’d say of course I have. Every time I’m handed a new mission, or there’s a change in global or local power.” She looked at Karis briefly. “But the net effect is always that I am more determined than ever to have our country grow in strength. And my way of doing that has always been to train the best of the best so they, in turn, can teach others.” She flashed a smile. “I have a meeting shortly,” she said, now slowing to a standstill. “I look forward to an opportunity to do this again some time.”
“Thank you, Ma’am. I’d like that.”
Fisher nodded, and took a couple of steps back. “And, by the way, I’m very impressed with your skills on the shooting range.” She turned away.
Karis watched as Fisher started backtracking along the path on the forest’s perimeter.
Smiling—with a sense of contentment—Karis continued, picking up the pace again. Her breathing, and the occasional snap of old bracken underfoot, were the only sounds in the forest.
Chapter Forty-Four
The Abbey, Virginia, USA
As she jogged away from the younger agent, Erika Fisher’s face was grim.
Of all her reports, Karis Deen was the most resilient, and she was the most interesting. She was also the one that most reminded her of herself as a younger woman.
She stopped jogging, to catch her breath.
Christ. She couldn’t really be breathless in under twenty minutes, could she?
She grit her teeth and began again, picking up the pace this time. Determined to make the full circuit without raising a sweat.
She thought once more of Karis. The conversation with the young agent had left her with an uneasy feeling. In some ways it was understandable, of course; she herself had been young once, and subject to the worries and concerns of a woman who was still young enough to find love. To have a family.
It was no use: she stopped and bent forwards, resting her palms on her knees.
She looked at her watch and stood straight once more, emitting a furious, “Shit!”
There was no way around it: she’d need to find a doctor. And preferably before she had to undergo her annual physical.
Breathing heavily, she continued walking at a pace.
Chapter Forty-Five
US Embassy, Clayton, Panama
May, 2011
US Ambassador Larry Roebuck hovered behind Summers, reading over his assistant’s shoulder.
The afternoon was wretchedly hot, and the air-conditioning in his office seemed to be on the blink. Summers’s office was cool, though, so he’d made himself at home there, in order to go through the official communications.
“Okay, read what you’ve got so far.” Roebuck stepped back from the desk. He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes as Summers started reading.
“One: In his February 3, 2011 status report, John Siegel, Jr (Siegel chief engineer) wrote [quote]: ‘Regarding our calculations, we predict the CISCO consortium are in deep financial trouble and must run out of money soon.’ [See attached full report.]
“The Embassy hasn’t been able to gain certified information about CISCO’s bookkeeping to verify their level of liquidity.”
Summers paused, and looked up at Roebuck. “Is that right?”
“Yes. Good job. Next paragraph?”
Summers read the screen. “Two: Local intelligence have reported seeing the British Consortium engineer, Max Burns, playing golf almost weekly with the Chinese Ambassador, Steven Zhang, and meeting with him afterwards at the Chinese Embassy.”
Roebuck sighed. “Where did you get that from? That sounds like gossip.”
“I took it from the internal intelligence brief that came in yesterday.”
“Take it out. We can’t put gossip into formal reports to the Secretary of State.”
“Okay, sir.”
Roebuck left Summers’s office and returned to his own.
Air-conditioning or not, he’d had enough of the office altogether that day.
He flung himself in his chair.
Puffing air into his cheeks, he arced up his desktop computer and p
ulled up a browser.
“Sir!” The hollering came from the hallway, a few minutes later.
Roebuck closed his eyes.
What now?
“Mr. Ambassador! It’s the Secretary of State on line one!”
Summers now appeared, breathless and flustered, in his doorway. “I’m so sorry, sir. I’m so sorry! I made a terrible mistake!”
“What are you talking about?” Roebuck looked at his phone: the light was blinking.
“Sir, I sent the entire Siegel report to Washington … including the bit about the Chinese.”
“Sweet Jesus!” Roebuck sprang to his feet. “Out!” Furious, he pointed to the door.
Summers, obsequious, backed out.
Roebuck sat, took a deep breath, and picked up the receiver.
“Larry, what’s this about the English engineer and the Chinese Ambassador?”
“Good afternoon, Ma’am.” Roebuck paused, but there was silence. “Right, well, yes, I wasn’t even sure if I should send it through, it could be just some local gossip—”
“It could very well be much more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“A Chinese investor is looking to build a canal in southern Nicaragua.”
Roebuck almost sprang from his chair once more. “What?”
“We believe that’s why the Chinese didn’t compete in Panama’s expansion. It may be they are trying to sabotage the Panama Canal in order to get some leverage for their Nicaragua project.”
“In order to get leverage …?” Roebuck echoed her, fumbling for words.
“Yes. Your intelligence about the British engineer is the first concrete connection between China and the Panama Canal.”
“Oh. I see,” he said. “Of course.”
“Thanks, Larry. And let me know if you get any more information from your end.” The line went dead.
Slowly, Roebuck hung up the receiver.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.
What the hell just happened?
He pressed the handkerchief to his brow and stood up.
A Nicaragua Canal? To be built by the Chinese? Sabotaging the Panama Canal?
His heart was racing.
What the hell is that Max Burns up to?
Chapter Forty-Six
Washington, D.C., USA
July, 2011
Erika Fisher ran down the wooden staircase in the old building and flung open the main door.
Outside, the spring air was jaw-numbingly cold.
She barely felt it.
People jostled to get past, and she stepped back, away from the push. She pressed her shoulders to the concrete wall.
Numb, she thought of the black-and-white x-rays she’d seen last week, clipped to the lightbox. The milky definition of the bones in her chest cavity. And the doctor’s furrowed brow.
She’d been expecting a ’flu. Or—at the worst—pneumonia, but her appointment this morning had changed all that.
“It’s not good news, I’m afraid, Mrs. Andrews. You have advanced lung cancer. The blood work has confirmed it.”
The doctor’s words echoed in Fisher’s head.
“We’ll need to do another CBC test—”
“A what?”
“A cancer cell count—we’ll need to do another test in two weeks, to see how fast it’s advancing.”
“How …” Fisher fumbled for words. “How much time do I have?”
The doctor shook her head slowly. “I can’t say.”
“That’s not an answer!”
“Is there someone you’d like me to call?”
Fisher looked away and breathed, holding unwelcome emotions in check.
“A family member, perhaps?”
Fisher stared at the doctor, unable to process her words. “A family member?” she repeated. “Right. The family.”
Who? Who the hell would you call?!
She felt anger rising.
The doctor glanced down at the paper in front of her. “I see you live in the city … Is the right, Mrs. Andrews?”
“That’s what I wrote,” Fisher responded.
“Great. My receptionist will book you an appointment at the hospital today. You’ll get all the help you need there.” She stretched out her arm to reach for some brochures. “Here.” She slid them across the desk, then looked down to write a prescription. The skin on her finger bulged out, either side of a gold engagement ring. The stones looked to be either fake or of bad quality.
“Does it show up in a regular blood test?” Fisher asked.
The doctor looked up. “I’m sorry?”
“Cancer. Does it show up in a regular physical exam?”
“No,” the doctor said. “Not in a basic blood test.” She looked quizzically at Fisher for a moment. “Perhaps that’s how it was missed.” She signed the prescription. “This should help with the pain. My receptionist will walk you through the next steps.”
Fisher took the paper and walked directly toward the door. She needed air.
“Mrs. Andrews?”
It took Fisher a moment to realize the Doctor was calling her. She paused in the doorway.
“It’s not a weakness, you know. Nor is it your fault. We don’t have a choice in these things.”
For a moment, Fisher stared at the doctor. “You do this job five days a week?” she asked, suddenly.
The doctor nodded, with a smile. “Sometimes six.”
“And you … what? You sit there—on that chair—all day, every day?” She didn’t bother to hide the sneer in her tone.
The doctor didn’t respond.
“You see … I’m fit,” Fisher said. “I’m extremely fit. I don’t indulge, and I don’t allow sloppy, weak behavior into my life. And yet, somehow—” Her voice broke off. “Somehow, I’m the sick one.”
She turned on her heel and left.
Now, as she scanned the seemingly unceasing flow of unfamiliar faces on the downtown sidewalk, she set her jaw.
When the light turned, she pushed through the press of pedestrians—sheep at a crossing—and walked briskly toward the drugstore on the corner.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The White House, Washington, D.C., USA
December, 2011
The Secretary of Defense, Bill McKenzie, took his seat in the Situation Room at the White House.
This time, he was early.
President Richard Nash greeted the other members of the National Security Council and took his seat at the head of the table. Without further niceties, he turned to McKenzie.
“Nicaragua,” he announced. “Get us up to speed, Bill.”
McKenzie nodded and spoke to the room. “The Nicaragua’s National Assembly has just approved a bill to grant a Chinese private investment company a fifty-year concession to build and manage a new canal through their country.”
There was a general murmur of disquiet.
McKenzie continued: “Our team in Nicaragua has sent us leaked plans for their proposed canal.” He looked around the room. “These plans say the canal is due to be thirty meters deep. That’s nearly a hundred feet.”
“A hundred feet?” The Secretary of State, Rebecca Eisenhower interjected. “That seems a bit excessive.”
“Precisely. The original canal in Panama is operating at a depth of forty feet, and the new channel will be operating with a depth of sixty feet, in order to accommodate the post-Panamax vessels. And that’s what’s got us worried. There’d be no need for such a great depth if the Nicaragua canal was only being built for commercial use.”
“So what are they up to?”
“We ran an analysis, and the lake itself—Lago Nicaragua—is around forty-five miles by ninety-five miles. That’s about as big as the state of Connecticut.” McKenzie smiled grimly. “With a depth of a hundred feet plus those parameters, we’ve now established that the Chinese could be planning to build a full submarine base in the middle of Central America.”
There was silence.
/> “Completely undetectable by us or anyone else,” he added.
President Nash started tapping his pen on the table: a sign that he was thinking. After a moment, he said, “Bill, how far is Managua from Washington?”
McKenzie knew what Nash was thinking. “Only two thousand nautical miles,” he responded. And his meaning was implicit: intermediate range ballistic missiles have a range of up to three-and-a-half thousand nautical miles.
Nash looked at McKenzie. “A full underwater military base … masquerading as a shipping channel …” He shook his head. It was at times like this that Nash’s slow, midwestern pace and wry humor showed itself most strongly. “Well, that sure is one for the books!”
“So what are we doing about it?” Rebecca Eisenhower emphasized her words with a fist on the table in front of her. “For a canal in Nicaragua to be seen as a legitimate business proposal they’ll need to attract other countries toward their shipping route,” she said. “But the Panama Canal is already well established. Even after we gave it back to the Panamanians in 2000, it’s still really well administered. Big shipping companies would have no reason whatsoever to change their trade routes unless the canal was sabotaged or running into disaster.”
There was a long pause as President Nash looked around the room.
Eventually, he looked at McKenzie. “As this is an issue of national security, Bill, you’re in charge.” He got to his feet. “I’ll be damned if I’ll stand by while China builds an arsenal of nukes on our doorstep. What did Sun Tzu say in The Art of War …?” His tone was rhetorical, and he rested his fingertips on the table. “‘In battle, there are not more than two methods of attack: the direct and the indirect. Yet these two in combination give rise to an endless series of maneuvers.’” He paused. “We may not have any control, nor do we fully understand what exactly is going on in Nicaragua, but we will definitely not allow the Chinese to make a fool of us in Panama. Not on my watch.”
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