The Expansion
Christoph Martin
“Be subtle, even to the point of formlessness. Be mysterious, even to the point of soundlessness. Thereby, you can be the director of the opponent’s fate.”
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
Prologue
Prologue, I
Prologue, II
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Two
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Part Four
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Part Five
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Acknowledgments
About Christoph Martin
Copyright
Prologue
Prologue, I
Burns Estate, Surrey, England
January, 1993
She’d always been beautiful.
Even as a young woman, before the diamonds and designer handbags. Before she discarded the snug, high-street polyester and invited him to dress her slowly—lovingly—in silk.
As he fought his way toward her that winter’s night, through the crush of champagne glasses and dinner suits, he recognized in his wife’s eyes the same, potent attention that had drawn him—and so many others—toward her, all those years ago.
Because Helen Burns saw people—she really saw them.
Just as she’d seen him. And his estate.
Her canny ability to smell opportunity had been the reason his already impressive holdings and assets had exploded beyond mere wealth into the realm of fortunes: theirs, and those of the souls fated to stray into her orbit.
“My love, you’ll never believe whose path I crossed last night. It was meant to be …!”
Edward Burns felt the stab of pain in his chest.
“Ed, what is it? Is something wrong?” She must have seen him, because now she was beside him.
“We need to get out of here!” He gripped her arm.
She pulled back. “What?”
“Helen, if we don’t go now—”
“What are you talking about? We can’t leave in the middle of our own party—”
“They’ve arrested Garcia!”
“Rupert Garcia …?”
She froze.
Slowly, she turned her head. Her gaze travelled over the glassy twinkle of Christmas lights and the swirling theatre of laughter and faces, as though seeing it all for the first time.
She looked back at him.
“Shit!”
And he saw the set of her jaw.
“We need to take care of this, Ed,” she hissed. “Now!”
She waved the head of their household staff over, issued instructions and—within moments—they were away: through the marble foyer of their home, onto the gravel swing drive, past mistletoe and ivy that clothed the stone columns, and out onto the frosty grounds of the Burns estate.
By the time the skids of their Robinson R44 helicopter were lifting into the night, she had called their lawyer.
“We’re on the way to London,” she’d said, as she strapped herself in.
The heli’s rotor blades roared, shoveling icy air. They gained altitude fast.
Expertly, Ed took the craft above the tree line.
“I’ve made arrangements for Max.” He spoke into the lip microphone.
“What arrangements?” Her voice was in his headset.
“He’ll come back to England next week to live with Alan—”
“With Alan?! Are you crazy? I’m not having my son on a housing estate! Do you know what those places are like—?”
“Enough, Helen! You’re not listening! It’s over! We don’t get to choose any more. There’s a warrant for our arrest.” He looked at the well of blackness he knew to be the Surrey forests below, and his stomach lurched. Perhaps there was another way …?
“But this is us, Ed: me and you. We’ll pull through, like we always do.”
“Except it isn’t just us this time, is it? It’s everybody else you convinced to buy into Rupert’s bloody scheme! All of our friends, Helen!”
“I wasn’t to know—”
“No!” He cut her off. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” He turned to her, and an emptiness began to steal over him. “Everything I did, I did it for you. I always loved you so much. I still do.”
She said nothing.
“But everything we have … It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.”
Still, she remained silent, and Ed turned away.
They had reached a flying altitude of three thousand feet.
His fingers found what they were searching for: the smooth, plastic sheath that guarded the engine’s idle shutoff valve.
It would only take a moment.
Numb, he turned to his wife. She had covered her lips with her hand, and he heard a sob. In the darkness, the diamonds at her throat had lost their fire.
“It’s the best way. I can’t let them put you in jail,” he said. “Max will be able to make a clean start. One day, I hope he’ll forgive me—”
“No!” she shrieked, swiveling frantically in her seat. One hand was on the window pane, and her eyes were on the ground, far below them: on the freckled lights of their receding home.
With all his remaining strength, Edward Burns reached for his wife. He drew her toward him, and he hugged her tightly.
Then he pulled the valve.
As the engine died, she fought the c
age of his arms.
But it was only a moment.
Then the canopy tore away, slain with disembodied metal blades, and the torque threw them, spinning, pitching, toward the ground.
Edward Burns felt nothing as his skull split open.
Prologue, II
Zuoz, Swiss Alps
Dragging his suitcase over icy cobblestones, sixteen-year-old Max Burns stumbled toward the stone water trough that sat at the top of the rise. The old fountain had frozen over months ago, although Max knew nobody would have need of it until late spring, when the valley thawed.
His classmate, Godfredo Roco, had abandoned his own bag on a nearby snowdrift, and was settling himself on the edge of the stone basin.
Godfredo was classically good looking despite an impressive bruise that marred his left eye socket, and he carried a fat and expensive cigar between gloved fingers. He had helped himself to several cigars from his father’s collection with the express intention of saving them for his birthday, although—after a few too many slugs from the smuggled schnapps bottle on the four-hour trip from Zürich to Zuoz that evening—he’d stepped off the train and announced, “Fuck it. Now’s as good a time as any.” And promptly lit one up.
Max now plonked himself alongside his friend, and slid off his knitted beanie. He ran a hand through his blond, perpetually tousled hair, and surveyed the village below. Its narrow, stone streets had been laid hundreds of years before the first growl of a motor, and snow lay thickly on neat, fairy-tale rooftops. Twinkling Christmas lights delineated eaves and chimneys, and wisps of wood smoke hung low in the valley.
Max pointed to the highest mountain peak. He squinted along the length of his arm.
“I reckon I was about that high in the helicopter last week,” he slurred. His words were slow and deliberate, thanks to the schnapps and the icy air on his lips.
“Should’ve seen my dad’s face, Fredo!” he said. He dropped his arm to his lap and turned to his friend. “Sort of like he was shit-scared that I was up there in the heli all by myself for the first time … But also really, really bloody proud.”
Sighing, he flung an arm over Godfredo’s shoulder. “I bloody love that, you know? I bloody love him.” He hiccupped. “Always pushing me to do big stuff.” He hiccupped again, stumbling over his words. He laughed. “’Scuse me.”
There was no response but a pulsing orange glow as Godfredo sucked repeatedly on the cigar.
Max released his friend and punched him playfully on the arm.
“You should ask your dad to get you some flying lessons,” he said, recalling the rush of adrenalin as he watched the grounds of their English country estate drop away below him. “Seriously, Fredo, you’d love it. You’ve got one hand on the cyclic …” He closed his eyes. “You pull on the collective—”
“Jesus!” Godfredo cut him off. “Can you imagine my dad spending a nice Sunday afternoon watching me go up in a fucking helicopter?” His tone wasn’t bitter, although—as he turned—Max saw his friend’s smile was forced.
He tried to imagine Godfredo’s larger-than-life father, Paco Roco, doing anything recreational with his son.
At least, anything that didn’t involve hordes of hot women on yachts.
Or hollering his head off at horses on the racetrack.
“Okay, maybe not—”
“You fucking got that right!” Godfredo’s laugh was brittle. He held out the cigar. “Here, hermano.” He often addressed Max this way, and his voice carried a rich lilt and a trace of his Argentinian-Spanish mother tongue, despite having lived in England with his father for going on a decade.
Max took the cigar and inspected the label.
“You know, Fredo, if I wasn’t so sodding drunk right now, I’d call up your dad.”
“Yeah?” Godfredo was looking out across the valley.
“Yeah. I bloody would. And I’d tell him he’s gotta stop hitting you.”
Immediately, Godfredo turned to look at Max. “He doesn’t mean it.”
Max shook his head. “Dude, face it. Your dad’s a complete asshole.”
He didn’t see the punch coming until Godfredo’s fist collided with his stomach.
Immediately, he doubled over in pain.
The cigar dropped, its embers scattering like shooting stars.
Godfredo was on his feet. He pointed at Max with one finger. “I get to say he’s an asshole. You don’t.”
In a second, the two boys were fighting, all right hooks and headlocks. They writhed, their limbs entangled, landing heavily on icy snow.
Godfredo wrenched himself from Max’s hold and dived for his suitcase.
Slowly, Max lifted his head. He watched as Godfredo strode away and—just as quickly—swung around and strode back.
He stood within arm’s reach, his lips pressed together.
“You know, sometimes I fucking hate my dad. More than life itself.” He paused. “But he’s the only one I’ve got. So … yeah.”
Before Max could apologize, Godfredo had set off, alone, up the last, steep stretch of road toward the Alpine boarding school.
As Max approached the cluster of stuccoed, salmon buildings that comprised the exclusive school grounds, he glanced up. The ever-reliable clock on the squat bell tower told him it was close to midnight.
Trudging through fresh snow, he followed Godfredo’s tracks past the solitary fir tree that stood at the center of the courtyard. Its branches were laden with snow and silver Christmas baubles.
He hauled his suitcase into the building.
The foyer was warm and brightly lit, and still smelled of the evening’s meal: doubtless roasted meat and vegetables. For those who’d arrived back at school on time. He stamped his feet to rid his boots of snow and kept his head down, hoping above all hope that he could slip by while the housemistress was dealing with Godfredo: his friend was masterful at hiding his inebriation, which came in handy in the face of the school’s zero tolerance policy.
“Sorry’m a bit late,” he mumbled, glancing up, briefly.
He stopped walking.
Godfredo was staring at him. The housemistress was staring at him. And the receptionist’s door stood open.
“What’s going on?”
Max turned to see a large man by the office door. He wore a flimsy trench coat—surely not enough for the ravages of an alpine winter. His huge, no-name, nylon sneakers were ill fitting and heavily worn.
Max recognized him immediately.
“Uncle Alan?” He looked from his uncle to the house master. “I don’t understand.”
Alan stepped forward, twisting a red-and-white English soccer scarf in his enormous fists.
“’Fraid there’s some bad news from home, lad. It’s your parents.”
Max felt his stomach lurch.
“There was an accident,” Alan continued. “They didn’t survive the crash. They passed on.” He placed a heavy hand on Max’s shoulder.
“They … what?”
“They died, lad.” Alan’s deep voice was gentle. “I’m real sorry. We tried to reach you, but we—”
“No.” Max cut him off. He shook his head. “There must be a mistake. I saw them just … only …” He started to take off his jacket and looked at Godfredo, trying to think how long they’d spent in Godfredo’s vacation apartment on the Bahnhofstrasse in Zürich. “What was it, Fredo? Two days ago?” He waited for confirmation, but his friend’s face was stricken.
“Leave your coat on, Max,” the housemistress said. “It’s best if you go now. Your uncle will drive you to Zürich.”
“But we just came from there.”
“Yes, yes, you did,” she said, her tone affirming. She turned to Alan and lowered her voice. “The mountain pass is open, it’s quite safe to travel at night, but I’d suggest you leave now if you want to get on the early flight. When did you say the funeral was?”
Max turned to Godfredo as a wave of sickness washed over him.
Godfredo stepped quickly toward him. “You�
��re okay, hermano,” he said. “You’ll be okay.”
Dumbly, Max nodded.
“I’ll come over in a couple of days,” Godfredo said. “I’ll be there. I promise.” He hugged him hard.
When he stumbled out into the night once more, Max felt nothing.
His only thought was of the frozen water fountain above the village.
The feel of ice-cold stone, and of water molecules changing shape as they expand in the pipes. And how he wouldn’t be there to see the valley soften and come alive in spring.
Part One
Chapter One
London, England
November, 2008
Through the darkness and driving sleet, Max Burns could see the glow of the Land Rover’s red taillights as it sat, idling, by the curb.
Running, he dodged pedestrians and puddles until he reached the passenger side. He pulled the door handle and dived into the front seat.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I ran into Professor Moyle as I was leaving the auditorium.”
Sarah smiled and leaned in to collect a kiss on her cheek.
“Ugh! You’re all wet!” she said. She wore a Burberry scarf and she smelled good.
Max put his leather bag at his feet and began stripping off his sodden, down jacket. “God, it’s cold out there.”
Sarah gave the wheel a confident spin and steered the car into the flow of traffic toward the edge of campus.
“So how does it feel, Dr. Burns? Was it terribly sad giving the very last lecture of your university career?” She flashed him a triumphant smile.
Max gave a dry laugh. “Hardly. ‘Megascale project best practices’ and ‘trust-based collaboration’ …? You can imagine the glassy-eyed effect I managed to induce. Teaching is …” He laughed again and shook his head. “Well, let’s just say I’m doing the students a favor in moving toward private enterprise.”
They passed the perimeter of the university grounds, and Max watched as the stately buildings that had been his professional home base for the past five years receded.
He turned to Sarah. “We’ve been invited to dinner tonight.”