Once in her apartment, Fisher opened the refrigerator door and reached for cold water.
As she made her way to the bedroom, she was, for the first time, glad of the seemingly endless supply of fancy mineral water that appeared daily in her refrigerator.
She drank thirstily for several seconds, her eyes closed, before realizing her grip on the glass bottle was tight.
She looked at it. It was an idiotic, blue designer variety, the water doubtless from some random European mountain spring.
Small luxuries.
Which are entirely unnecessary, unless you yourself are somehow deficient.
She hurled the bottle at the bed with an intensity of rage she’d not felt in decades.
She was damned if she was going to let her hard work go to dust, no matter the cost.
End up on some flowchart or infographic at the next Congressional Hearing?
Not in her lifetime.
Fisher reached for her duffel bag and pulled fresh clothes from the closet.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Embassy of the People’s Republic of China, Casco Viejo, Panama City, Panama
Four exits, if you count the high windows.
Karis surveyed the room.
What did Zhang want with Max? Why did they leave the room so unexpectedly? Something must be wrong.
The other guests seemed barely to notice Zhang’s departure, so enraptured were they with the food.
Does Zhang know who I am?
She pressed her lips together, thinking fast; this was an eventuality she hadn’t fully prepared for. Everything about Max’s life—his simple apartment, his orderly filing systems, even his lean contacts directory in his email and on his phone—everything was transparent. None of the usual clutter that enabled questionable behaviors to coexist. Even their background files and research showed that he’d had little or no time to do anything beyond his teaching load. Not to mention that demanding girlfriend.
Karis smiled politely at the man in a Tom Ford shirt, who had turned to look at her.
I couldn’t have got Max wrong, could I?
But there was no time to analyze it now.
Avila … He should be right outside the embassy by now, or at least within a few minutes’ reach.
But could she get off the grounds?
She felt an urge to speak aloud: to say something that might be picked up by the DROP app, but the phone was in her bag, on the seat behind her, and she couldn’t risk calling attention to herself.
“Ms. Deen?” The voice was soft in her ear.
Karis turned to see the Ambassador’s assistant.
“Would you kindly step outside for a moment? And please bring your belongings.”
“Of course,” she stood immediately. “Is something wrong? Where’s Max?”
She didn’t expect a reply. She spoke only to sound like a real girlfriend.
In the foyer of the embassy, the Ambassador’s assistant stopped and turned to her.
“Dr. Burns sends his apologies. He will contact you later. I must ask you to leave the premises.” Out of earshot of the other guests, his voice was not as polite as it had been. He was unsmiling.
Karis frowned. “Are you sure? He didn’t say anything about—”
“I must respectfully ask you to leave the premises.” He gripped her arm and directed her toward the door.
“Of course.” Karis walked down the steps. She made the short walk to the guardhouse, then out onto the street.
She felt her heart rate go up. There was no chance her cover was still intact: not any more. That guard’s manner had told her everything she needed to know.
Swiftly, she crossed the street, pushing her way through the Friday night partygoers.
She started running.
Through the mêlée, Karis could see the yellow cab outside the bar at the far end of the street. Avila himself looked to be embroiled in a heated discussion with a guy in a traffic warden’s waistcoat.
Damn. Get rid of him, Tucker!
As she drew closer, she could see it wasn’t a traffic warden, but one of the bien cuidados: the guys who dressed themselves like government employees, claiming custodianship of the scarce street parking in the Old Town.
He was facing off with Avila.
“Fuera de mi area!” Get out of my zone.
Avila wasn’t having any of it, it seemed, until he saw Karis coming. Hastily, he handed the guy a dollar bill. “Aquí tienes un dolar. Ahora tranquilízate!”
The guy nodded forcefully—like he’d just kicked a winning goal—and stood with his arms folded, waiting for Avila to leave.
Karis wrenched the door open and flung herself in the front seat.
Without a moment’s pause, Avila took the driver’s seat, and pulled out into the busy street. He leaned on the horn to clear a path.
“Talk to me!” Karis demanded, scanning the street behind them. She punched the car radio into silence. “What the hell is going on? The Chinese have got Max!”
“What? Who has him?”
“Zhang took him somewhere! I don’t even know if he’s still on the embassy grounds. What do you know?”
“Did you check your messages? Did you see the news? About the Commissioner?”
Karis shook her head. “No. How could I? I’ve been off the grid, eating freaking pulverized prawn eyeballs—”
“Aw, shit.” Deftly, he swerved the cab to avoid any contact with the tightly parked cars on the curb. “The Canal Administration Commissioner is dead: murdered!”
Karis’s mouth dropped open. “What?! Gonzáles was murdered? When?”
“During the thunderstorm this morning, on the golf course. They just found the body.”
“Oh my God.” Karis’s hands went cold. “Which golf course?”
Avila looked at her briefly. “The Panama City Golf Club. Why?”
“That’s the club Max and Zhang play at.”
Avila cast her a look. “They were there this morning?”
“Yes. And now they’ve both disappeared.”
“Shit …” He pumped the horn at a guy on a moped. “Muevete, imbécil!”
“Tuck, did you see any vehicles come out of the Chinese embassy while you were watching?”
“A white laundry truck, and a beat-up Honda. Also white. There were two people in the Honda, but only one that I could see in the laundry truck—”
“Look out!” Karis said, as they narrowly missed the curb. “Pull over, Tuck, before you get us killed.” She pulled out her phone and dialed Max’s cellphone number.
Avila swung the cab into a dead-end side street and stopped the engine.
“Damn. His phone’s switched off.” She looked at Avila. “I need to get to Max’s apartment in case he shows up. That’s the only way I can get in contact with him. It could be the Chinese have taken him off the embassy grounds in one of those vehicles, but—in case not—you should go back and watch the embassy. When you get any news, let me know immediately.” She got out of the car and slammed the door. She leaned into the open window frame. “I don’t think Max is involved and I’m worried he might be in danger. And I don’t know why.”
“Karis, do you think you’re in a position to make a fair judgement?”
“This is my job, Tuck. I know how to separate my feelings from my assignments.”
There was a pause. “Okay, Karis. I trust you.” Avila reached for the passenger side glove compartment. He pulled out something wrapped in a faded, blue bandana. He handed it to her. “Take this. You might need it.”
She took it. It felt like a Glock.
Karis ran the few blocks to Max’s apartment.
The street was busy, being a Friday night, so she made a few passes of his building, checking side streets—watching for watchers. Just a precaution. She couldn’t see either of the cars Avila had described as leaving the Chinese embassy earlier that night. Not that she expected to, but perhaps she hoped to.
She looked up at Max’s front window.
The apartment lights were off.
Laughing to herself, she realized she wouldn’t need her superior lock-picking skills: Max had entrusted her with a key.
She pulled it from her purse.
The foyer was lit with an old deco-style chandelier, so she didn’t loiter but made her way up the main staircase to his apartment. There, she didn’t bother turning on the hall light, but moved directly to Max’s door.
Instinctively, she reached for her bag, for silicone gloves, but of course there were none: the bag was a satin number—beaded, with only her cellphone and a lipstick. And the gun. In any case, her prints would already be all over the place, so she unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Chapter Sixty
Casco Viejo, Panama City, Panama
The interior of the car wasn’t in any better condition than the car’s chassis. Vinyl seats were splitting at seams, and there was damage to the ceiling.
Steven Zhang seemed unfazed, his eyes on the flow of traffic ahead of them as he expertly navigated the small car away from the city’s Old Town.
“Max, I do apologize for the circumstances,” he said. “I have just learned that something of significance has occurred, and it is in my country’s best interests that I distance myself from you at this time.”
Zhang now pointed to the large envelope that sat above the dash.
Max looked at it. “Is this a joke?”
Zhang nodded at the envelope, his hands both on the steering wheel. “Unfortunately, history tells me it is likely that, under the circumstances, the Americans will point fingers at China.”
“What for? What circumstances?” Max slid his finger under the seal. The envelope opened easily.
“As you know, my government did not deny reports that there will be a new passage through the continents with the Nicaragua canal.” Zhang paused. “We believe that’s why they have an agent on you.”
“An agent? Come on!” Max laughed at the absurdity.
Zhang pulled out a sheaf of digital images.
Slowly, Max turned to look. “Steven, this isn’t funny …”
In his hand was a picture of Karis Deen.
Zhang said nothing as he navigated the traffic.
Max looked again at the images in his hand, uncomprehending.
Karis Deen in the street.
Karis Deen entering the Presidential Palace with the Smithsonian scientists last year.
Karis Deen … in a CIA bulletproof vest.
Max put a hand to his jaw in a fruitless attempt to erase the tension. He leafed through more images.
Can pictures like this be fabricated?
And yet there was one image of Karis that was irrefutable: Karis Deen with Max Burns—just last week. There she was: sitting next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder, on that wall by the waterfront.
“She can’t be CIA,” he murmured, looking at the bulletproof vest she wore in one image. “That’s an old picture, from years ago. Look at the date …”
Still Zhang said nothing.
Max let the images fall to his lap. He turned to the window of the cab.
He registered only dimly that they were now on the main esplanade, heading east of the city, along the bay.
“You’ve been watching me,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You’ve been watching … everyone.”
There was a pause. “You understand—”
“No, Steven, stop!” Max snapped. “I understand you’ve had people watching me when I believed us to be friends.” He felt the anger surging through him. “Let me out of the car—now.”
Zhang immediately indicated, and veered the car toward the road’s shoulder. Traffic swerved and sped past them, horns honking, as they slowed to a stop.
As Max put his hand on the door handle, Zhang reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Max—”
But Max shook him off. “You know, after what you just told me—with all your intelligence and covert spying and bullshitting to your so-called friends—how do you expect me to believe a word you say?”
“I have absolutely no expectations.”
“Of course you don’t,” Max said. His tone was bitter. Shaking his head slowly, he looked at the face he’d grown to trust. “Is China involved in something to do with the expansion?” he asked quietly. “Are you setting me up so you can build your canal in Nicaragua?”
He waited, but no response came.
Zhang looked away, and Max’s fingers gripped the car’s door handle tighter.
When Zhang spoke, he didn’t meet Max’s eyes. “I will always be available for my friends, but I am first and foremost the Ambassador for the People’s Republic of China. I am not in a position to discuss details with you.” His voice was even. “Max, I don’t know exactly what happened at the golf course today before we met, but I have to ask you to get out of the car now.”
“At the golf course? What are you talking about?”
Zhang didn’t respond.
Max looked at him, incredulous. He had no words.
Stunned, he opened the car door and stepped out, alongside frantic, Friday night traffic.
The door slammed behind him.
The car took off.
Chapter Sixty-One
Costa Del Este, Panama
Max turned, his head reeling, as the white Honda disappeared into the night.
Karis.
Mind numb, he started walking in the same direction the car had travelled. Horns honked, and Friday night partygoers whooped out car windows as they passed in gusts and whooshes, causing his jacket to flap like a scarecrow in the wind. The smell of remains from the city’s fish markets hit him in gusts of sea breeze, the salty trace of offcuts more prominent, perhaps, now that the sun had gone, and the day’s hubbub had died down.
What the hell had just happened?
It must be big, if the Chinese Ambassador was willing to risk his own reputation to get him off the embassy premises.
And what had happened at the golf course?
Max pulled out his phone and switched it on.
He searched: Breaking news Panama.
He inhaled sharply.
“Canal Commissioner Gonzáles murdered.”
And there it was: Gonzáles was dead, on the course at the Panama City Golf Club.
Max squeezed the phone. It was almost surreal.
And yet … Steven was the one who had been late to their meeting that day.
“Shit!” He ran a hand through his hair and cast a look up the street.
He looked at his phone and saw, now, a message from Sarah.
Hesitating, he touched the screen. Sarah had long ago told him she’d wanted no more contact. And he knew she wouldn’t be contact him unless …
“Alan in hospital. He had a stroke. Please call me as soon as you can.”
“No!”
With shaking fingers, he punched in her number.
Suddenly, he stopped. What if Steven had been sent to set him up? What if the CIA was tracking his cellphone?
Fumbling now, he cancelled the call.
He switched off the phone.
For a long, awful moment, he looked around him.
Across the avenue, lit up by the city’s streetlights, the leaves of tall palm trees shifted gently in the warm breeze. Pedestrians walked in packs along the sidewalks, traffic honked, open-topped buses were jammed in between taxis and luxury cars and beat up little family cars like the one he’d been in not minutes before.
Lifting his head, he watched the blinking lights of planes coming in to land, of other aircraft passing overhead.
How did it come to this?
Slowly, Max made his way up the strip and toward the flow of traffic heading east. He put out an arm. He didn’t hold out much hope of hailing a taxi on the freeway, but he had no choice.
It was less than a minute before a yellow cab pulled up alongside him.
“New Horizons,” he said, as he stepped in. “Do you know it? Lo conoces?”
&nb
sp; “Sí, Señor.”
The cab took off, a breeze from the Bay of Panama coming in the open windows. The driver—an older, snaggle toothed man—was singing a Latin pop song at the top of his lungs.
Max looked at the phone in his hand. In one swift move, he threw it out the window.
“Usted está solo?” The driver’s words interrupted his thoughts. He seemed not to have noticed the phone as it smashed on the roadside. “You go solo tonight?” The driver winked at him in the rear vision. “At New Horizons?”
Max nodded. He was tired beyond belief.
“Please,” he said. “Just drive.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Casco Viejo, Panama City, Panama
Karis Deen pulled the Glock from her purse, and felt its familiar weight in her hand.
Slowly, methodically, she scanned Max’s apartment.
A light was on in the bathroom, but otherwise it was dark and appeared to be uninhabited.
She went into the living room.
The voicemail light was blinking on the phone’s handset.
She moved across and picked up the receiver.
An automated recording: “You have … three … missed calls and … one … new message.”
Then a female voice: English. Tense. “Max? It’s me. Sarah. Where are you? I’ve tried your mobile. Call me back as soon as you can.”
Karis placed the handset on the table. Briefly, she wondered what Max’s life had been like in London.
“Come on, Max,” she murmured. “Where are you?”
Silently, she looked around the living room.
Everything appeared to be in order. Even the papers on the dining table were in neat piles.
The last time she’d been in the apartment was under entirely different circumstances—mere days before—and for a moment she felt a real, sharp pang of loss: loss of that intoxicating levity she felt when she was with him.
Of course—levity aside—she’d managed to work her way through every single possible drawer and storage nook while he showered a few nights ago.
And, even thinking back on it now, dissecting everything she’d seen, she was still unsure: Max Burns either had nothing whatsoever to hide, or he was an extremely good actor.
The Expansion Page 20