The Expansion

by Christoph Martin

  The warning horn blew. And then again, as the rain began to fall.

  Cautiously, Paco raised his head: Gonzáles lay on the ground, unmoving. The other man was walking away. Toward the clubhouse.

  Inch by inch, Paco pushed himself back, away from the scene. Down the incline.

  There, he lay inert, breathing fast, rain coming down onto his face, his entire body.

  Instinct told him to get out of there. Fear told him to freeze.

  He clambered to his feet and, as fast as he could, Paco Roco ran for the trees.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Obarrio, Panama City, Panama

  “Get your flabby ass over here.”

  Godfredo looked at the phone as it went dead. This was a new level of charm, even for Paco.

  He grabbed his work tablet and, within sixty seconds, was at his father’s suite.

  “Yup, whaddaya want?” he called out.

  Paco was nowhere to be seen. Rain whipped the massive floor-to-ceiling window panes as the storm outside continued its fierce tirade.

  “Dad?”

  “Don’t fucking ‘yup’ me!” His father’s voice came from the bedroom. “Get in here and shut the door!”

  Godfredo made his way to the bedroom.

  Paco was frantically scooping belongings together, throwing them into a large suitcase that sat on the bed. He was drenched.

  “What’s going on?” Godfredo stood in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

  Thunder shook the apartment.

  “Dad?”

  Paco now stopped and faced him square on. He was short of breath. “Gonzáles is gonna be reported as missing. And I don’t know when they’re going to find him. But I do know it’ll be after this fucking storm stops, and I do know they won’t find him alive.”

  Godfredo’s mouth hung open. “How …? What?”

  Paco went to the en suite and swiped bottles of cologne and toothpaste and hair products into a plastic bag. “Dad? What the fuck did you do?”

  “I didn’t fucking kill him,” Paco bellowed. He came back to the bedroom. “But I saw it.” His face was contorted. “I was supposed to be meeting him at the golf course.”

  “Shit. Really? Did anyone see you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Paco pushed back his wet hair with both hands. “Just one man, it was. Some other golfer. I don’t know. Maybe there was another guy lurking around.”

  “And you know for sure he’s dead?”

  “He’s dead, okay! Shot in the head!” Paco started a frenzied round of pulling clothes from cupboards and drawers.

  “Okay, so they didn’t see you. That’s a start.”

  “No, you idiot! That’s the fucking end! Don’t you see? Gonzáles was our surety that the Panamanian government would get behind us when we run out of cash!” Paco dumped collared shirts onto the pile.

  “Wait … When we run out of cash? What are you talking about?”

  “Our profit has been syphoned off and allocated, that’s the way we were playing it. But Gonzáles was our goddamn insurance that we’d be able to get more to finish the project!” The rain from his hair was still dripping down his forehead. Outside, forks of lightning speared the sky.

  “But who would want him dead? There wasn’t anyone else who was in on this arrangement?”

  “No!” Paco started wrestling with his sodden jacket, in an attempt to remove it. “It was between Gonzáles and me. All I know is he had an informant, the one who got the figures we needed from the American team for the bidding.”

  “And who is it?”

  “I don’t fucking know! Gonzáles wouldn’t tell me.” He wrenched the jacket off his body and threw it to the floor.

  “Great. So now what?”

  “I’m going to make an announcement to the press today that the money’s mysteriously gone, and that I believe Max Burns is responsible.”

  Godfredo’s jaw dropped. “Are you insane?”

  “No, I’m trying to survive.”

  “This is just …” Godfredo held up his palms, at a loss. “I don’t even know why I’m arguing about the logic of this. We can’t do this to Max … I can’t do it.”

  “No! You listen to me, you little shit!” Paco pointed a finger at Godfredo. “I already have a history with Gonzáles. He used to work in our Buenos Aires office. It was a long time ago, and most of the records are buried, but I need to act fast, in case the authorities link our names before I have a chance to get on a plane. We need to divert their attention and Max is our only option.”

  “Dad, this has nothing to do with Max!”

  Paco exploded. “I will not go to jail in this country. You hear me? We don’t have any other way out.”

  “And then what? Run away to the Bahamas?” Godfredo looked at him, shaking his head. “You’re such an asshole.”

  Slowly, Paco turned to Godfredo. His expression was bilious. “You don’t speak to me like that.”

  His fist connected with Godfredo’s cheek.

  Godfredo reeled, stumbling.

  Paco pointed to him once more, as—outside—the storm made its presence known and thunder shook the windows.

  “Don’t you disrespect me. We talked about this right from the beginning. And I warned you.” Paco slammed the lid of his suitcase. “I’m making this call, and I’m also doing it for you. If you had half a brain, you’d start acting like a Roco.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Casco Viejo, Panama City, Panama

  At the same time as the driver, Max Burns jumped out of the black sedan. He ran to the other side of the vehicle to greet Karis, and opened the car door.

  The driver, apparently unmoved, returned to his seat.

  The streets were wet and steaming. Torrents of water gushed down the street’s broad drains, and the sky was spitting its last reminder that this was, indeed, the tropics.

  Karis was wearing sandals, and that same, simple, midnight blue dress she’d been wearing at the President’s Palace, two years ago.

  “I hope it’s not too much,” she said looking up at him, a fold of the long, satin-like fabric scrunched nervously in one hand. “I was having a major wardrobe crisis because I wasn’t sure how informal it was.”

  Max laughed. “You look perfect.”

  He closed her door and ran back to the other side of the car. He could barely take his eyes off her: her long hair was swept up at the nape of her neck into a loose chignon. She twisted stray locks of hair, pushing them behind her ear, attempting to tuck them in. She seemed nervous, but he’d noticed she was often far more relaxed when they were alone together than when they were in public.

  “You don’t have to keep opening doors and pulling chairs out for me,” she whispered, as he slid into the seat beside her.

  He smiled and pulled her hand toward him. “I know. But it’s how I grew up. My father did it—for everyone, not just women.” Max paused, and looked at her face. “Well, it doesn’t matter,” he said with a smile. Then he did what he’d been longing to do all week: he kissed her. He almost wished they weren’t expected at the dinner so he could have her all to himself.

  Karis pulled away and gave a shy smile. “So did you whip his ass this morning?”

  “You mean Steven’s?” Max had to take a moment, to switch gears. “No. He got held up with some meeting or other, so I started the round without him.”

  “That sounds like fun,” she said brightly, but Max knew she was teasing.

  “All good practice,” he said, with a grin. “I had to finish my round early anyway, because of the thunderstorm. It was bedlam. I met Steven for drinks at the clubhouse afterwards.”

  Karis was gazing out the window. “Can you not keep on playing after the rain?”

  “Normally, yes. But that storm was huge. It’ll be like a marshmallow out there. I don’t think anyone will be on the course until tomorrow.”

  The phone in his pocket started buzzing, and he pulled it out in time to see a missed call from Alan’s home numbe
r.

  He switched the phone off: a night with Steven Zhang was bound to be interesting, and Alan always appreciated a good story. He resolved to call him in the morning.

  Before long, they were on the waterfront in the Old Town. Several yellow taxi cabs were lined up along the foreshore by the low, stone wall, and people were milling around the mouth of the cul-de-sac, already in weekend party mode.

  The sedan wheeled slowly toward the guards at the gates of the Embassy of the People’s Republic of China.

  The driver’s window slid down, and there was a brief exchange. The guard peered into the rear of the car. He nodded to the driver and waved them in.

  Out the front of the embassy building, the car came to a standstill. Max smiled at Karis, and they waited as two valets opened their doors.

  As they entered the foyer, a member of staff led them through to a comfortable sitting room that Max hadn’t seen before. It had exquisite silk furnishings, tapestried in one of the ancient Chinese traditions. Modern, black, teak furniture was arranged around an antique red, upholstered lounge chair that formed the room’s centerpiece.

  Steven Zhang entered, his arms held wide.

  “Max! How glad I am that you are able to join me!” He took Max’s hand and turned to Karis. “Ms. Deen. So very good to see you again. I know you’re going to find tonight’s menu captivating.”

  Zhang bowed, excusing himself, as more guests entered the room, one after the other. They were clothed in designer shirts and shoes: flamboyant waistcoats, asymmetrical jackets, and a voluminous tartan dress that—thanks to having spent so many years with Sarah—Max knew could only be a Vivienne Westwood.

  Karis was staring at the intricately painted ceiling. She turned to Max, her expression unreadable.

  He took her hand.

  “Apéritif,” a waiter announced.

  Tearing his eyes away from her, Max looked down to see small, clay cups clustered on a bamboo tray.

  He released her hand and took two cups.

  “Thank you.”

  He handed one to Karis as the waiter moved away.

  “I’m going to bet it’s spring water,” he whispered. “Or filtered celery juice.”

  She started to laugh. “Really?”

  “Steven’s a big fan of hydration.” He smiled.

  Simultaneously, they lifted their cups and drank.

  “Yep,” she whispered. “Celery juice.”

  “Welcome, everyone!”

  Breaking through the excited chatter now, Zhang introduced guests that hailed from Beijing, Toronto, Cape Town and New York. It wasn’t difficult to tell from their introductions that they were in the rare company of foodies: bloggers, reviewers, food chasers.

  “Please come this way!”

  The dozen of them were ushered into the Embassy’s substantial, industrial-sized kitchens, where two long trestle tables with six chairs apiece were positioned in front of the largest of the kitchen’s stainless-steel benches. It was more science lab than kitchen.

  Silently, Zhang moved to help people find their seats. Max and Karis were seated on the far side, in the second row.

  Each table was decorated with three small but elaborate floral displays set equidistant from pairs of table settings. A low, black bowl sat in front of each place; white, liquid nitrogen seeped over each rim, its fingers of cold creeping along the tablecloth.

  “You smell it?” Karis murmured.

  Max nodded. There was a scent of sage—the barest whisper. A strange first course that couldn’t be eaten.

  A short Asian man wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses now stood to one side of the front bench. He wore a chef’s black-and-white-checked pants and plum jacket. A streak of blue hair was pushed behind his ear, under a chef’s hat. Two sous chefs stood behind him, alongside several tall canisters with metal lids and rubber tubes with dials attached.

  Zhang now spoke. “It is my absolute privilege to introduce esteemed molecular gastronomy expert, Chef Michael Wu.”

  Chef Wu bowed. “I am honored to be able to give this experience to you.”

  One of the sous chefs lowered the lights on the guests’ side of the kitchen, leaving the main bench floodlit.

  Karis rested her hand lightly on Max’s arm.

  The Chef worked quickly with a knife and small boxes of ingredients. Smoke began to emanate from a glass bulb above a Bunsen burner, and one of the sous chefs was working with a crème foam.

  After some minutes, a small cube was placed on a piece of black slate, alongside a black ramekin, inside which was the crème foam.

  “To begin: spring vegetable soup with crouton.”

  Chef Wu bowed, and the plated delicacies were distributed.

  As Max put the first spoonful of foam into his mouth, he noticed a wheat-y, toast-like flavor. Within moments, the foam had crystallized into crisp breadcrumbs.

  All around the room, guests were uttering exclamations of surprise.

  Karis, beside him, was laughing in delight. “Try the crouton!” she said. “It’s incredible!”

  Max lifted the crouton to his lips with a pair of black chopsticks. As it touched his tongue, it dissolved into a delicately flavored warm soup.

  A spontaneous round of applause broke out and, looking at Max with pure glee, Karis gripped his arm. “I’ve never …” Her voice trailed off as she glanced over his shoulder, distracted.

  Max turned.

  Zhang’s assistant was now at Zhang’s side. He leaned down and spoke.

  Zhang immediately stood, and moved silently out of the room.

  The assistant straightened his jacket, and looked directly at Max.

  He held his gaze as he approached.

  “Dr. Burns, the Ambassador would like to see you in his study.”

  Max looked at Karis, then back at the assistant.

  “Er, of course.” He stood, placing his napkin on the table. “I’ll be right back,” he said softly to Karis. “Excuse me.” Ambassador Zhang was waiting in the corridor, not far from the kitchen.

  He was holding a large envelope.

  “Steven?”

  Zhang started walking. “Please come. We don’t have much time.”

  Through a back exit, past dumpsters of dirty linen and a hive of activity in the bowels of the building, Max was led to an underground parking lot.

  “What’s going on?” Max asked. “Is it some kind of emergency? Karis is back there—”

  Zhang spoke quickly in Mandarin, and his assistant handed him a set of keys. The Ambassador walked directly to a small, white Honda sedan. One of the doors had a long score along it, and the license plate was hanging at an odd angle. Its darkened windows were dirty and scratched.

  “Steven, is everything okay?” Max asked.

  Zhang looked at him and nodded. “Get in, please. We need to go.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  The Abbey, Virginia, USA

  Erika Fisher sat in her leather office chair. A small vial and a glass of water sat on the desk in front of her. She reached out and tipped a white capsule into her hand. She put it in her mouth, took the glass of water to her lips and swallowed.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Fisher slid the glass to the side and the vial into her drawer. She picked up a dossier.

  “Enter.”

  “Ma’am, I’ve just received priority intelligence from Panama.”

  Agent Jay Stevenson was standing in the doorway.

  “Go ahead.” Fisher put down the dossier and indicated the free chair.

  “The Panama Canal’s Commissioner, José Gonzáles, has been killed. His body was found on the course at the Panama City Golf Club.”

  Fisher narrowed her eyes. “Accidental?”

  “Doesn’t look that way. He was shot in the head.”

  “Has the news broken?”

  “No, it’s not in the media yet. The body was found less than an hour ago. Sea Bass Two also reported Commissioner Gonzáles had called the American Embassy s
everal times. We don’t know who he was calling. However, he also received a call on his cellphone this morning.”

  “He received one?” Fisher sat up straighter. “Who was it?”

  “Ambassador Roebuck.”

  “Do you have the transcript of their call?”

  “Yes. It was very short. He told Gonzáles to meet him. Guess where?”

  “At the Panama City Golf Club?”

  “Exactly.”

  Immediately, Fisher stood. “I want no contact with our Embassy in Panama—at any level—until I can get to the bottom of this.”

  “You’re going to Panama yourself?”

  She nodded. “There’s more going on there than we originally thought. Walk with me.”

  She left the room with Jay in tow.

  “Get Marc Hussain to my office within the hour for a full briefing.” Fisher spoke to her secretary.

  She turned to Jay. “No need to inform the other teams that I’m going in.” She paused. “It won’t look good for the country if an American Ambassador is involved, so I want absolute discretion until I know what we’re dealing with.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Jay Stevenson took his leave, and Fisher made her way toward her living quarters.

  As she crossed the lawns, she was aware of pain in her chest. Her mouth was dry, and it wasn’t from fear or adrenaline. The doc had warned these pills would have side effects.

  As she walked, she thought of Richard Nash, the President of the United States himself.

  “He’s a Godly man,” her father had once said. “He cares about our country.”

  Even today, there was a quietly powerful body of senators and other politicians who believed it was worth putting every resource into retaining the United States’s ever more tenuous foothold in Central America and, indeed, the world. Consciously or not. Building the Panama Canal was one of those pivotal projects that had seeped into American identity. The incredible undertaking had literally catapulted the United States onto the world stage—as visionaries, as leaders at the forefront of the industrial age. It was the stuff of legends.

  And nobody wants to see a legend fall to its knees.