The Expansion

by Christoph Martin

  She nodded. “I worked here for quite some time, Max. I know the kinds of cars we use in Panama.”

  In the far corner of the lot, Max slowed the car to a standstill.

  Hands still on the wheel, he turned to Karis. “How do we know they’re not in the car?”

  Her eyes were on the entrance to the building. “We don’t,” she said. She opened her door.

  As he pulled on the door lever, Max felt the cold snap of metal against his other wrist.

  He tried to pull back.

  “What the …? What are you doing?!”

  She had handcuffed him to the steering wheel.

  Unable to find words, he gaped at her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, softly.

  He tried again to wrench his wrist free, but only succeeded in sparking a pain that shot up his arm.

  “You can’t do this!” he shouted.

  “Shhh! Keep your voice down!” She hissed. “I have to do my job, Max. You’re not trained to enter this kind of situation. It’s not safe for me, or for you.”

  He reached across with his free hand, trying to catch her arm, but she slipped away and stepped out of the car.

  “Karis,” he said, his voice urgent. “This is me here. I’m not some random civilian. That bastard did this to me! You can’t stop me from defending myself! It’s not right!”

  She placed a hand on the top of the car door and turned to look at him.

  “Karis, stop! Remember I told you once about my father?” Max’s words were fast; desperate. “And how that con artist Rupert Garcia screwed him over?”

  She hesitated.

  “You’re the one who told me to let it go … That he did the best he could under the circumstances.” Max leaned toward her as far as he could. “And you were right. But now you’re screwing it up for me! I can’t do anything if I’m tied to a goddamn … bloody … steering wheel!” He fought the handcuff. “This is my future, Karis! It’s my fight!”

  He could only watch on, numb, as she closed the car door and started to run toward the main building.

  Enraged now, he thumped the steering wheel. He fought the cuffs; he punched the car seat.

  Until, close to tears, he conceded defeat.

  He leaned back on the headrest, and he watched her run.

  If this was the end of the line, then so be it.

  Max Burns knew he’d done his best.

  But then, suddenly—miraculously—Karis stopped running. Poised, with gun in hand at her side, she turned.

  Max sat forward. His heart leapt as she started sprinting back to the car.

  Without speaking, she pulled open his door and released him.

  “Thank you,” he said, rubbing his wrists. He got to his feet. “Thank you.”

  When he took her hand, she looked up at him and kissed him, and for an impossibly small sliver of time he forgot everything as he breathed her in; wrapped his arms around her.

  Then, abruptly, she broke away, and the two of them ran—together—into the darkness.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Balboa, Panama City, Panama

  Uplights in the foyer cast a gentle, ambient light. Enough that Fisher could see framed photographs of the Expansion signing ceremony along two walls: Paco Roco with the President of Panama; Max Burns on the construction site with a safety helmet on. Various configurations of the new CISCO team as they visited the expansion site.

  The signed agreements stood in a glass display case along the back wall, although she noticed Larry Roebuck averted his eyes as they passed.

  Her own footsteps, in sync with Roebuck’s, were the only sound as the two of them moved toward the corridor that took them to the northern wing of the building.

  Within minutes, they had reached the office she was looking for.

  Dr. Max Burns

  Chief Engineer

  The door was large and of a dark, polished wood. She turned the brass handle and wasn’t surprised when the door swung open.

  “Hmm. No security cameras and the doors aren’t locked. Not big on security in the tropics, are they?” she murmured. She turned to Roebuck, ushering him into the room. “But I guess the likelihood that someone would abuse their position is pretty low. Under normal circumstances.”

  Roebuck appeared to ignore her sarcasm and stood, unmoving, in the center of the large, marble floor. It was an office that suited well the title of Chief Engineer.

  Fisher stepped inside, taken aback for a moment by the view. Generous windows and a patio looked straight out over the canal itself, and above a dark canopy of tropical foliage was the faraway glow of illuminated steel that delineated the Bridge of the Americas from the inky, tropical night.

  With the aid of a small penlight, Fisher moved across to the desk and switched on the desk lamp.

  As the room’s contents became visible, illuminated but the glow of the lamp, she grew aware that she was in the office of a man whose focus—not unlike her own—was almost entirely on his job: the place was absolutely tidy, with no photographs of family or loved ones on the desk; no clumsy crayon pictures or unidentifiable, childlike clay creations collecting dust on shelves. Just a couple of golf balls and an orange golf tee in the corner of one of the bookshelves, alongside a neatly folded paper napkin. The napkin bore the seal of the Presidency of Panama.

  “What are we doing here?” Roebuck asked, his voice steady.

  Fisher opened a few of the filing drawers and removed some of the folders.

  “What are you doing?” he persisted.

  “Sir, I’d ask you to place the gun in the drawer. Wipe it clean first.”

  Roebuck didn’t move.

  “Mr. Ambassador, I know you have it. Please put it in the drawer. Now.”

  Slowly, Roebuck opened his briefcase.

  He pulled out a .45 caliber gun.

  He pointed it at Fisher.

  “My agents know you’re with me,” she said, unwavering. “And they know you spoke to Gonzáles on the phone this morning.”

  “And yet, as of now, you’re the only one who knows I killed him—”

  There was a noise from the hallway, and both of them turned to look at the door.

  Silence.

  With renewed urgency, Fisher said, “Please, sir. I’m asking you to put the gun in the drawer so the authorities can find it here.”

  Roebuck narrowed his eyes. “You’d blame the English engineer to save my hide?”

  “It’s not about you!” Fisher felt herself snap. “You’re … nothing! Less than nothing. What have you ever done in your life? Who have you ever served other than your own sorry, political ego?”

  At her words, Roebuck smiled, and Fisher berated herself for losing her cool. For giving him anything of herself.

  “What’s in it for you, then?” he asked. She heard the mock curiosity in his tone. And suddenly she was tired of the man. Tired of his arrogance and grandstanding.

  In one swift move, she took her own weapon from her belt and aimed it at Roebuck’s face.

  Roebuck’s hand remained steady.

  “If I hand you over to the authorities and they find you guilty,” she said, “the United States will never gain control of the Panama Canal again. We’ll never be trusted to step in, in any capacity at all. We’ll be the laughing stock of the world. But perhaps you didn’t think about that when you started playing your little war games?” Her tone was scathing. “Killing me gets you nothing,” she snapped. “In fact, I’m your best insurance. Now put the goddamn gun in the drawer!”

  Fisher felt a bead of sweat slide down her temple.

  Roebuck’s attention flickered across her face, and a trace of a smile crossed his lips.

  “They don’t know where you are, do they?” he said. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  My God. He’s going to shoot me, and he’s going to sleep like a baby tonight.

  Fisher grit her teeth: she could kill him now and it would all be over …

  “There are alway
s casualties of war,” she said, softly. “And, this time, Max Burns is one of them. It’s unfortunate. But he’s a likely candidate because he has links to the Chinese.” She paused. “The Chinese would not hesitate to take advantage of our weakness. And I don’t intend to let that happen.”

  She waited patiently.

  “Let’s finish what you started.”

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Balboa, Panama City, Panama

  “There are always casualties of war. And this time, Max Burns is one of them …”

  Fisher’s words ricocheted around Max’s head.

  He stood with his back to the wall outside his office door, his mind reeling.

  He—Max Burns—was nothing more than a scapegoat in a massive power struggle being played out right there, within arm’s reach.

  On the other side of the doorway, Karis Deen was mirroring Max’s pose. In the half-light of the corridor, he could see her eyes searching his. She seemed focused and calm.

  In the room beyond, Roebuck’s voice broke the silence.

  “So … you’ll let me go?”

  Fisher gave a short laugh. “Hardly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sick, Larry. Very sick.” At Fisher’s words, a frown crossed Karis’s brow. She tipped her head, listening intently. “My days are numbered. But yours aren’t. And you’ll have to live with this for the rest of your sorry life: knowing we framed an innocent bystander and destroyed his life. Even though right now you think it won’t affect you, one day it will. I can promise you that.” She paused. “I’m not sure what you call freedom, Larry, but I don’t think it’s this.”

  In the moments that followed, Max held Karis’s gaze. She lifted her hands so the gun was close to her face.

  “Your patriotism is contagious,” Roebuck said. “But I don’t think I’ll be leaving my safety in anyone else’s hands. Least of all God’s.” He gave a short laugh. “But it sounds like you’ve made your peace with him, so you won’t mind if I help you along your way.”

  Frantically, Max shook his head. Don’t go in, Karis!

  “Put down the weapons!”

  In a split second, Karis Deen was no longer in the doorway.

  Leaping forwards instinctively, Max followed her.

  A shot tore through the silence, brutalizing his ears.

  Horrified, he watched as Karis’s knees buckled and she fell to the floor.

  Roebuck stumbled backward, the gun still in his hand.

  Fisher quickly moved to stand between Max and Karis, her gun aimed at Max’s head.

  “Stop right where you are!” she said.

  With nothing less than a guttural roar, Max flung himself at the man who had shot Karis; the man whose plan had almost brought down the entire expansion project. His fist ploughed into Roebuck’s stomach.

  “Max, stop!” He heard Fisher only dimly.

  As their bodies hit the floor, Roebuck fought back. He was older, but he was strong.

  “Max Burns! Step away!”

  But Max saw only red as rage tore through him. He punched with all the might of his anger, and heard a sickening crunch as Roebuck’s nose broke.

  The two men were locked together as Roebuck’s fist collided with Max’s jaw. Searing pain shot into his eyes, and he jolted back, bringing the full weight of the older man with him.

  Above them, Fisher stood with both hands on her gun. It was pointed at Max’s head.

  Recoiling, he released his grip on Roebuck’s neck, and a second shot rang out.

  Through the ringing in his ears, Max became aware of a voice.

  He opened his eyes.

  It was Tucker Avila.

  Fisher lay, motionless, on the floor.

  With blood dripping from his chin, Roebuck scrambled on hands and knees toward the corner of the room.

  Instinctively, Max got to his feet and, shaking, started walking toward Karis. A dark stain was spreading on the floor by her shoulder.

  “See to Agent Deen,” Avila barked. He moved swiftly across to Roebuck and cuffed him.

  Max sank to his knees at Karis’s side.

  He wanted to touch her, to stop the bleeding, but he didn’t know where it came from.

  “How could you do this?!” he said. “How could anyone do this?” He didn’t look at Roebuck, though his words were meant for him.

  “Karis!” he urged. “Karis! Can you hear me?”

  “Sea Bass to Hub: this is Avila. We have two agents down …”

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  US Embassy Medical Facility, Clayton, Panama

  Max stood near the doorway, a large bunch of longstemmed, white chrysanthemums in his hand.

  In full view of the corridor, Karis was seated on the edge of the hospital bed. Morning sunlight caught her hair while she made conversation with an unseen visitor. She wore her arm and shoulder in a sling.

  Max knocked on the doorframe.

  Karis stood quickly, seemingly caught off guard. “Max!”

  He walked across to the bed and held out the flowers.

  “They’re beautiful!” she said, taking them from him. “Thank you.”

  He smiled. “They’re from Steven. He said they symbolize strength and longevity.”

  “Really?”

  “I’d have thought you’d know that sort of thing. Being a biologist and all.”

  Her laugh lit up her face, and she winced, touching her shoulder gingerly.

  “Yes,” Max continued, “he’s really sorry about what happened to you. He sends his best wishes.”

  She inclined her head to the side, and Max became aware of the man standing at the foot of the bed.

  “You know Agent Avila,” she said.

  “Call me Tucker.” Avila shook Max’s hand warmly. He wore an aquamarine shirt bearing a pattern of pineapples and surf boards.

  “Tucker!” Max said. “I don’t know what to say. I am deeply in your debt. Thank you.”

  “It’s all part of the job.” Avila grinned.

  “Well … indeed. The job,” Max echoed. Karis’s eyes were on him. “May I ask,” he ventured, “how you knew where we were? And that we needed help? Was it some secret agent magic?”

  Avila started laughing. “Yeah, I wish!” He gave Karis some kind of significant look. She shrugged, as though to say she had no opinion, and Avila turned back to Max. “I can’t give you details, but our colleague was monitoring Karis’s biometrics. That’s how we knew she’d found Roebuck and Fisher. And that she was in trouble.”

  “I see. Sort of.” Max laughed, self-conscious. He wasn’t sure what to say. “Are you … staying on in Panama, then?”

  Avila shook his head. “I’m taking off for a couple of weeks’ holiday. I just came to say goodbye to Karis.” He turned to speak to her directly. “You’d better be in full health for Roebuck’s inquiry, Deen. It starts in a couple of months: fraud … murder … You won’t wanna miss that one!” He grinned, but then his smile faded. “Did you have any idea Fisher was that sick?”

  Karis shook her head. “No, and I can’t believe I didn’t notice something was off.” Her gaze slid across to the window, and she stared for a moment in silence, before looking at Avila. “She didn’t have any family,” she said, simply.

  Avila was silent.

  “Shall we get going?” Max prompted, gently.

  They turned to him, and Karis nodded.

  “Well, I’ll be off, then.” Avila said, with a cheerful tone. “We’ll stay in touch?” He stepped forward and hugged Karis gently. “Gonna miss you, Deen.”

  “You too, Tuck.” Karis now placed the flowers in her restricted hand and then lowered herself into the wheel chair.

  As Avila walked away, he tipped an invisible cap at Max. “Look after her!”

  Max smiled. He swung Karis’s bag onto his shoulder and took the wheelchair handles.

  “How’s Godfredo doing?” she asked, as they moved toward the door.

  “Oh, you know Godfredo: he’l
l be okay. He’s in a detention facility, and I don’t think the beds are quite up to his standard, but he’s a survivor. He’ll probably get a few years in prison for fraud. I saw him a couple of days ago, and he told me Sofia’s visited him every day so far.”

  “No way!” she laughed.

  “I know.” Max grinned and wheeled the chair down the corridor, toward the elevator.

  “Avila just told me Interpol has put out a red alert for Paco, so they’ll get him eventually,” Karis said. She reached out and pushed the elevator’s ‘down’ button.

  Wearily, Max ran a hand through his ever unruly hair. It was hard to believe how close the entire expansion project—and his life—had come to collapsing.

  He sighed. Even if he wanted to tell someone the real events of the past few weeks, who would he tell? Who would believe him?

  Alan. That’s who.

  But now he was gone: the man who had nurtured him for so many years. The man who had been there with a kind word and a cold beer, who’d not hesitated to drive through the night to deliver shattering news in the snowy, Swiss mountain village, all those years ago.

  The man who embraced life with all its terrible, wonderful stories, and who’d taught him the meaning of love.

  “You okay?” Karis’s voice was soft.

  Max nodded. But the words didn’t come. After days of legal bargaining and bureaucracy, he’d been informed he could leave the country to be by Alan’s bedside. But by the time that decision was made, it had been too late.

  An aching sorrow stole over him.

  Karis reached out with her free arm. He took her hand. In the Embassy hospital foyer, sunlight was reflecting off sparkling floors. The room blazed with the promise of the day to come.

  “Max, hold on!” Karis said. “I want to hear this.”

  Max looked in the direction she was pointing, to see a television screen mounted in the corner of the room, bearing an image of Panama’s President Guardia.

  The superscript said: Talks with China and the US.

  Nobody in the foyer was paying any attention to the television.

  Max wheeled the chair closer.