“I’m going to Colombia. We just got a big royalty check. I can’t just mope around here. If I can find Nuñez, I’m going to.”
Marty just stared at him. “What are you talking about? Do you know what your chances of finding him are in his own fucking country?”
Hastings lit a Silk Cut. “Well, nothing we’ve ever done has been considered sensible, has it? I’m going to take my holiday in Colombia!”
six
“Attention, passengers! We will soon be making our approach to Bolívar International Aerodrome. Please refrain from smoking or injecting until the warning signs are turned off. Also, please ensure that you bring all of your carry-on luggage with you upon exiting the aircraft, and do not leave behind your sample of No-Catch Cocaine, compliments of the Colombian Cartels! Enjoy your stay in lovely Bogotá, and thank you for flying Air Cartel!”
Hastings gazed out the window at the lush rainforest sweeping underneath the plane as it gradually descended toward one of the most remarkable cities on the globe, let alone South America. The whole continent had been kept in a state of near-anarchy since the arrival of the first Europeans, with revolutions and insurrections too numerous to count. The coastal Republic of New Portugal, founded on and still practicing slavery, was still by far the strongest, if not the richest state on the continent, with a large, well equipped army and a population of half a billion. Most of the people of that country lived in a state of dire poverty, and the nation was regarded with opprobrium by most of the world.
The former Spanish colony of Colombia ranked only slightly higher in the eyes of the world’s idealistic democrats. A pseudo-military oligarchy ruled the country with an iron fist, but it was widely acknowledged that the Colombian Cartels, the only genuine large-scale corporation in the country, was the real power behind the state. The company was formed by a committee of rich coca growers when drugs were legalized. Being the wealthiest men in the country, they had quickly consolidated their power. Their most audacious act had been the hiring (for a rumored billion-mark fee) of a German engineering firm to build a transparent, self-supporting dome made of space-age polymers over the city of Bogotá. The cost for the maintenance of this outlandish project on a yearly basis must be astronomical, but so was the wealth of the men who built it. Vehicle operation was restricted to certain hours under the dome, and fresh air was pumped in by massive generators. The air was laced with a weak concentration of cocaine, a feature designed to keep the population pacified and happy. Apparently it was effective, since there had never been any sign of social unrest in the capital since the dome’s unveiling. The rest of the country, and the continent, had been in constant turmoil since the European colonizers abruptly ended their rule. The cocaine-laced atmosphere also attracted tourists from around the globe in search of a worry-free holiday. Most of the arable cleared land in the nation was devoted to growing the coca plant, and a considerable porton of the population was under its influence at any given time.
The argument with Marty the day before had gone on for a couple of hours. He had accused Hastings of total feyness, as he put it, being willing to throw his life, or at least his career, away in a foreign land in search of pointless vengeance. Hastings had in turn told Marty that he was cowardly and disloyal. They had not parted on good terms, leaving the possibility of any continued musical partnership or any friendship at all in serious jeopardy, but Hastings had booked a standby flight to Bogotá the next morning. He had been much entertained during the flight, despite his despondence, by the presence of a pretty young diplomat from the Democratic Federation of Greater Costa Rica in the seat beside him; she had filled him in on some of the basic points of Colombian society and customs and had given him some direction for his enquiries, as well as a good view of part of her upper thigh.
When the plane had touched down and taxied, two soldiers came on board and opened every item of cabin luggage. This took about an hour. Hastings’ seatmate explained that the Colombian authorities seemed inexplicably concerned about what foreign visitors might be bringing into the country.
Stepping off the plane, he was hit by a wave of humid heat, forcing him to remove his finest Mod leather coat. A far cry from the unhealthy, smog-laden air of New York in the fall. A bus took them through the terminal and the entrance of that wonder of the world, the great dome of Bogotá. The only way it could be detected was by the glint of the late-afternoon rays on its transparent surface. As he shaded his eyes from the glare, he shook his head in astonishment at the thought of billions, even trillions of dollars wasted on this ultimate civic extravagance, built for no reason but pomp, while the bulk of the people lived at starvation levels all over the continent.
His bags were inspected again inside the airport, but he finally managed to check his luggage (one small suitcase and a knapsack) and phone one of the cheaper hotels his new friend had recommended, called the Villa del Palmar. Having safely booked a room, he sat down at the airport bar to consider his still mainly unformed plan of action. He had decided that even before he checked into his room, he would visit the British Embassy to try to find a sympathetic ear. It was a slim chance, but if the Empire’s authorities were willing to assist, he would gladly avoid the unpleasant task of scouring the criminal underground of an unfamiliar and possibly dangerous city. If Her Majesty’s servants were unwilling to assist, Plan B would have to be trying to hire some local help. And Hastings didn’t speak or understand a word of Spanish beyond gracias.
He finished his drink and hailed a taxi, an ancient Chevrolet Model A convertible from the thirties, and managed to convey his destination to the grinning driver. The streets of Bogotá were a madhouse of activity, even more so than the Latin neighborhood in New York. No one wore gas masks to protect from pollution, and instead of the fixed, sedated stares he was commonly used to seeing, most of the people seemed be filled with a manic, cheerful energy. Hastings began to feel something of the same elation as he breathed in the surprisingly sweet air; it felt like a mild cocaine high, which, he suddenly realized, it was. The atmosphere also seemed to be temperature-controlled in some way. It was not as hot here as it was at the airport. A new sense of enjoyment took hold of him. Every street seemed to be a marketplace, where peasant farmers loudly peddled their coffee, bananas, and other tropical goods. As the cab left the crowded poor areas on the outskirts of the city, the markets disappeared, to be replaced by prim-looking shops, although the crowds remained. He noticed what seemed to be a chain of identical shops placed every few blocks, with the sign Farmacia Recreativa. He took this to be the Cartels’ official outlet, and they certainly seemed to be the busiest shops in the city.
The streets in the area he was passing through were wide, clean avenues of gray stone lined with square low-rise buildings. It could have been the respectable business district of any provincial town in Virginia.
At last, the cab entered a shaded backstreet of older-looking, well-kept houses, many of which had flags hung over the doors, denoting international embassies. Hastings saw those of Costa Rica, France, Germany, and the Tatar Republic before the cab pulled up on front of a lavish European-style brick home flying the good old Union Jack. He gave the driver what he hoped was a good tip and was rewarded with an ecstatic parting grin. He strolled up the palm tree-lined walk and rang the doorbell, which played the opening strains of “Land of Hope and Glory.” The door was opened by a tall, very thin old man wearing a suit resembling worn-out butler’s garb. The man said something unfriendly in badly accented Spanish, looking Hastings up and down and making him feel quite self-conscious in his flares and lime-green T-shirt.
“Hello.”
The man said nothing but continued to examine him disdainfully.
“I’m English. I wonder if you could let me in to speak with the consul?”
“English, eh?” The butler’s wheezing voice sounded as disapproving as he looked, but he opened the door wide enough for Hastings to squeeze through. “Lost your passport? On some kind of New Age voyage of
discovery, having tribal hallucinations with the natives, are we? We see your sort from time to time. You think you can flaunt Her Majesty’s laws and the rules of polite society and decency whenever you can, with your drugs and pop music, but you’re happy to throw yourself on the mercy of her servants when you’re in need.” The rant seemed to take a lot out of him, for he leaned on the railing of the staircase, wheezing a little.
Hastings felt himself flushing. He was hot, tired, and his bags weighed heavily on his arms. “Listen, chum, I’m on very important business here. I’m going to see the consul, whether you like the sight of me or not!”
The old man moved to block Hastings’ path and was about to elicit another angry retort when a loud voice boomed from deep within the building. “I say, Boyle, what’s the fuss about out there? Can’t get a wink of sleep in here!” This was followed by a guffaw. A small, very fat balding man wearing a brown suit with a plum-colored waistcoat and a golden fob-watch emerged into the hallway. “Well, what have we here? A lost traveller? From old Blighty, are we?”
“Virginia, sir, but your … man here doesn’t seem to want to let me in.”
“Hmmm … well, he’s got a job of work to do, you know. An important function, what what! Regardless, you don’t seem very threatening, albeit a bit scruffy, and I haven’t had a visitor all day! That will be all, Boyle.”
The old man slouched off, disappointed, grumbling under his breath, into a small room near the door.
The consul lowered his voice. “A fine secretary, but a bit of a soggy blanket, what what! I’m Sir Andrew Laurence Fairweather-Smyth, of the Shropshire Fairweathers, at your service! Come in, come in!”
He led Hastings into a spacious office that contained several overstuffed leather chairs and sofas and a gigantic oak desk. The beige-papered walls were lined with trophies and photographs, most of which showed a much thinner, youthful consul playing polo or cricket. “Ah-ha, you’ve noticed my trophies and awards, dear boy! No polo in these parts, alas, although we sometimes manage to cobble together a cricket match.” He squeezed his rotund frame into the chair behind his desk. “I was stationed in Kashmir before this posting, staring down the Tatars, and I must say it doesn’t feel like much of a promotion. One becomes rather lonely with scaly old Boyle as the only decent English company for miles around! Ha! So, what can I do for you, young man?”
Hastings explained his troubles at length. He didn’t conceal his purpose for being in the country, mainly because he couldn’t for the life of him think of a more likely story to explain what a British pop star could be looking for alone in South America. When he finished, Fairweather-Smyth knitted his brows.
“A homicide, you say! An investigation the police won’t assist with, eh? Taking it all on yourself for honor and friendship’s sake, mmmm? It’s all a bit too Boy’s Own Paper, don’t you think? I’m sure you could have found some Virginian authority to take your story seriously?”
“I could not,” Hastings said flatly.
“Well, well, you know your own business best. Long time since I was last in those parts — and only on holiday at that. I prefer the heights of the Pamir, with a good horse under me and a division of fierce Gurkhas at my command, though those days are long over for me. I’m afraid, Mr. Hastings, that, though I greatly sympathize with your heroic, um, initiative, my hands are rather tied on this matter. This simply isn’t my jurisdiction. As you may know, relations between Colombia and the Empire are more than a little strained at the moment, due the Guyana Question, and we can’t afford any negative interactions that, shall we say, could adversely affect negotiations. You may have to avoid the Colombian authorities altogether if you want any direct answers to your questions.”
“So you can’t help me?”
“Now, now, you haven’t let me finish, my boy.” Fairweather-Smyth leaned back in his overstuffed chair, which looked dangerously like it was going to fall over backward, and lit up a peculiar-smelling brown cigarillo. “I’m an old-fashioned chap, but a reasonable one. I don’t pretend to understand the likes of you, with your strange clothes and funny ladies’ hairstyles and newfangled ideas about anarchy and all, but I do understand that every generation’s different. The result of a limited democracy! Got bairns of my own back home, and God knows what they’re up to as we speak. Worse than you, I imagine. And I do definitely appreciate a man of action and pluck.”
The consul, Hastings thought, looked like anything but a man of action. But he certainly liked the sound of his own voice.
The man leaned forward with a conspiratorial look, and the front legs of his chair landed with a thud. “I can put you in touch with a good local man. He’s sometimes … in Her Majesty’s employ, if you know what I mean.”
“You mean he’s a spy?”
“Not quite. His specialty is finding things and people, and that sounds exactly like what you need at the moment. He’s been useful to me on a couple of occasions.” The consul leaned forward even farther, arching a brow. “But mark my words, my boy, if you cause too much of a stir and bring any unwanted attention to the Crown in these parts, I’ll either disavow you entirely or have you in Colombian prison on trumped-up charges within a day. Am I understood?”
Hastings decided it would be wise to avoid a visible reaction to the sweaty little man’s threat, lest he should actually be capable of carrying it out. He nodded.
“Good!” The consul opened a desk drawer, took out a business card, and passed it to him. “He seems a bit of a shady character but is a really decent sort overall, and his Queen’s English is excellent. I don’t suggest calling ahead; his secretary will pretend to have no idea whom you are talking about. His front is as a respectable businessman, an exporter of tropical fruit and coconut-flavored beverages. He is also, from what I’ve heard, an excellent defenseman in a football match.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hastings said, standing up. “This is a start, anyway.”
“Good luck, and if you get any solid evidence, concrete stuff, mind, I might be help you at that point. Now, won’t you stay for a gin and tonic? I don’t get the chance to talk sport and home much in these god-forsaken parts. Do you swing a bat?”
“Haven’t for a while. I’d really better crack on, but thanks for the offer.” Hastings beat a hasty retreat to the door. The effort of being polite to the plump servant of Empire was starting to wear him out.
*
It was now 5:00 p.m., but the subequatorial sun seemed to beat down even harder as Hastings shouldered his way through the crowds. The temperature inside the dome, though supposedly controlled, seemed to have risen considerably. Upon checking into the hotel, which was priced a little beyond his means, he had found that the investigator’s office was fortuitously only a few streets away, so, after enjoying some of his complimentary airline cocaine, he set out into the streets once more. He had also managed to locate some of the strangely alluring cigarillos that the consul had been smoking, noting with amusement that they too seemed to be laced with cocaine. The whole country seemed to be made of it. Even more amusing was the fact that a stodgy old pillar of Empire could be seen smoking them openly with such relish. It was like the stereotype of the opium-eating Indian army officer succumbing to the exotic lures of the conquered culture.
Hastings enjoyed the sights and sounds of the streets, lost in his impressions, until he suddenly came upon the street he was looking for, the El Camino Real. At Number 56, in a shabby two-story building, he saw a sign that said Miguel Gonzalez: Bebibas Gaseosas. Ascending a steep staircase, he found himself in a dusty, wood-floored office, lit blindingly by the setting sun. Great clouds of dust circled in the beams. A stout, middle-aged lady in a green dress with her hair in a tidy bun was tapping away on an ancient typewriter. The tapping echoed off the walls. Another office was presumably behind a glass-windowed door near the desk. She looked up as the creaking floorboards announced his entrance.
“¿Necesito usted ayuda?” she said.
“Umm, Señor Gonzalez, po
r favor.”
“You have no appointment?” she asked, switching to heavily accented English.
“No, but I’ve just come from the British Embassy. Sir Fairweather-Smyth sent me. My name’s Simon Hastings.” He tried to inject a sense of importance into the words, as though sent on an important mission.
“Hmm, well, I never hear of any Mr. Fairwatersmith, but I see if Mr. Gonzalez will see you.” She disappeared into the office, returning a few seconds later. “Okay, go in.” She resumed her work, ignoring him.
Inside the inner office, a radio was playing a version of “Vegetables” by The Beach Bums, sung by a Spanish-language choir over unobtrusively soft jazz instrumentation. Gonzalez sat engulfed in sunbeams and dust motes behind a large but battered desk. He looked to be in his thirties, with shiny, longish brown hair and a light green zoot suit. He looked, in fact, disturbingly like the man that Hastings had come to Colombia to confront, albeit better put together. He didn’t get up when Hastings entered but looked penetratingly at him for a few seconds. His eyes were an intense blue that looked out of place on his olive-hued face. When he spoke it was in perfect, barely accented English.
“Welcome, Mr. Hastings. Yes, I am mildly familiar with your name. Not all of my people are ignorant of cultural events of the north. Though my tastes tend toward softer music, as you can hear.” The easy listening rendition of the song was mercifully coming to an end, to be replaced by Don Leitch’s latest light-folk hit, “Cosmic Wheels.” Gonzalez stood up abruptly and shook Hastings’ hand.
“Well then, if you know who I am, you will probably have heard of the very recent death of my friend, Guy Calvert,” Hastings said guardedly.
“There was something on the news last night about a dead pop star in Virginia, a famous one.” Gonzalez extended a case of brown Colombian cigarettes. Hoping that they were cocaine-free, Hastings accepted one and lit up. It was indeed free of such additives. “But we don’t get much substance in our foreign news here, Mr. Hastings, just the very bare facts. Tell my why this news has brought you all this way, and then to me.”
The Music of the Spheres Page 6