A Conspiracy of Friends (19 page)

“Feeling slightly more secure, I went to bed and turned out the light. My mind was now made up: the following day I would speak to my hostess and tell her that I had decided to get back to Barranquilla. I could invent a reason for this, or could just tell her that it was what I wanted to do. After all, I was not beholden to this woman. I had not asked to be invited, and surely the whole point about being a guest was that one could go home when one wanted.

“It took me some time to fall asleep, and when I did it was one of those fitful sleeps that one has when something is preying on one’s mind. I kept imagining that I was hearing the chest being shifted and would struggle back into consciousness and turn on the light, only to see that everything was exactly as I had left it. Eventually dawn came and I got up, still tired, and went to open the curtains and let in the morning light.

“My room was off a small terrace at the side of the house. Behind
the curtain was a set of French doors that gave out onto this terrace. They afforded a good view of the hills and the canopy of uninterrupted green between the house and the slopes in the distance.

“My heart stopped. On the terrace in front of the door were two men, and as I drew the curtain one of them pushed the unlocked door open and seized me. I saw that one of them had a cloth of some sort in his hand, a red handkerchief perhaps, and he brought this up to my face as he moved forwards. I shouted out, but the cloth soon muffled my cries. And then there was oblivion—complete oblivion—and I knew nothing more until I woke up in another room, a small, stuffy room in which the loud hum of an air conditioner or fan reverberated.

“I had a splitting headache, but my vision was fine, and I felt no other pain. I stood up, rubbing my temples to ease the throbbing, and looked about me. The noise that I had thought was an air conditioner now changed note, and at the same time I felt vibration in the floor. At that moment, I realised that I was in a ship’s cabin, and that the vibration came from the engine.

“I sat down again, hoping that this might ease my headache. It helped a bit, as did the rubbing of my temples. Now I was able to think, to try to grasp what had happened to me. I had been in my room and I had seen men on the terrace and then … The realisation came swiftly, and it was a frightening one.
Burundanga
. I had become a victim of
burundanga
. It all fitted: the man with the cloth, the amnesia, the waking with a headache.

“I knew about
burundanga
because I had been told about it by one of the young assistants at the school in Barranquilla. It had not happened to him—these stories rarely happened to the person who told them—but it had befallen a cousin in Medellín, a city noted for its lawlessness. This cousin had accepted a lift in a car—a rash thing to do in Colombia—and been offered a piece of cake by the driver. He began to eat the cake, and then passed out. The next thing he
knew, he was lying at the roadside more than fifty miles away, clad only in his underpants. Everything had been stolen, including his clothes. He was picked up by a passing police car, and was told by the policemen that finding somebody in his state by the side of the road was nothing unusual. They explained how the drug known as
burundanga—
or scopolamine, to give it its scientific name—was a boon to thieves. It could be administered orally or by simply throwing a powder in the victim’s face so that it would be breathed in. Once under its influence, one became completely compliant. That young man by the roadside would not have had to be stripped; he would have undressed without protest and handed over all his possessions with the same obliging meekness. And then came sleep and complete amnesia.

“I had listened to this explanation with fascinated horror. I had heard some disturbing things since coming to Colombia. I had heard of the ease with which one could arrange for the disposal of another—the price of a drive-by shooting in most places was little more than the cost of a night’s stay in a modest hotel, or of a meal in a good restaurant. And such things could be arranged with virtual impunity. The police could not cope with the burden of looking into every homicide, and how could they possibly work out which youth on which motorcycle had pulled the trigger? That had appalled me, but somehow this drugging struck me as particularly sinister. I was struck, I suppose, by the overcoming of the personality that it involved. There was something especially disturbing about the idea that the victim could be made to comply so absolutely, could be led like a lamb to slaughter. And now it had happened to me, although I was fully clothed. They must have dressed me, I thought. I looked down: the clothes were mine, as were the shoes. I had been wearing pyjamas when they struck, and so I had been dressed as one might dress a mannequin, or I had dressed myself on their orders, like an automaton, a puppet.”

H
UGH TOLD HIS
extraordinary story without interruption, while Barbara listened wide-eyed. Had this narrative been delivered by an actor in a studio, dictated with all the dramatic emphasis required for a noir offering from some breathless writer of thrillers, it would have been difficult enough to believe; but here it was being told by somebody Barbara Ragg knew and trusted, delivered with a straight-faced sobriety and lack of embellishment that only enhanced its credibility. Hugh, though, sought reassurance that he was being believed.

“I’m not making this up,” he said. “I promise you. This really happened.”

She reached out to take his hand. “Of course you’re not, my darling. And I believe you.”

“It’s just that you look … well, rather astounded.”

She let go of his hand. “Astounded? Yes, well, who can blame me? It’s quite astounding. It’s like listening to David Balfour.”

He took the reference. “
Kidnapped
was one of my favourite books when I was a boy. I had a copy that had belonged to my father when he was a boy. I loved it because David goes through our part of the world on his way back to Edinburgh. I used to think that perhaps he walked across our farm. I
played
at being David Balfour.”

“Yes,” she said. “I had
Anne of Green Gables
, and I longed to be Anne. More girly.”

“You were, of course, a girl.”

“I was. But please carry on. You found yourself in a ship’s cabin. You said that those people owned cruise liners. It was …”

He took over. “Yes, it was one of their ships. Or so I imagined—I didn’t see them, the cousins themselves, but it didn’t take long
to put two and two together. In fact, by the time the door of the cabin opened—I had discovered I was locked in—I had more or less worked out what had happened to me. They had offered me a job of some sort on the boat and I’d refused. But what I had forgotten was that this was Colombia, and these people were, as I had been told,
very
influential. In Colombia that means one thing—they were Colombian mafia, big-time
narcotraficantes
. And what I didn’t take account of, in my naivety, was that you simply did not decline an invitation from people like that. My hostess had tried to spell it out to me, and her son had underlined it, but I thought I knew better. Big mistake.

“You know, Barbara, because we live in a country like this, where the law is respected and even the most powerful can be called to account, we have no real idea of what it must be like to live in a place where you can’t make the assumption, where there are people who consider themselves above the law and can do exactly what they want. It’s a very strange feeling, you know—a feeling of being utterly and completely helpless. You feel powerless; you feel very much alone. And remember that I was only experiencing a little bit of it. I was in many ways a privileged outsider—I possessed a passport, even if I didn’t have it on me; there was an embassy in Bogotá that could make enquiries as to my whereabouts, that would kick up a fuss if one of its citizens was in trouble—all of that. But imagine what it’s like if you’re a landless peasant in such a place, or a little person eking out a living in a stinking
barrio
, or a servant whose job depends on the whim of some heartless employer who cares nothing for you? Think of what that’s like. Just think of what it’s like to be nobody, and to realise that people can do whatever they like to you and you’ll have no recourse, none at all. Not pretty, is it? But that’s been people’s lot for most of history, because human rights are a pretty recent invention, aren’t they?”

Barbara did not think he wanted an answer, but he paused and
looked at her expectantly. She considered the question. When
were
human rights invented? During the French Revolution? Or was the idea as old as the idea of democracy?

“I’m not sure,” she said. And then, rather wildly, she offered, “The Enlightenment?”

Hugh shrugged; having asked the question, he now seemed to have lost interest in it. “Of course, people had the consolation of their beliefs, didn’t they? In the past it might have been a little easier to bear one’s suffering because one thought that the people who made one suffer would be called to account in the afterlife. There might be no justice in this world but there was a pretty strong measure of it in the next. So the torturer got away with it for the time being, yet would regret every turn of the screw when he faced his maker. But destroy all belief in eternal justice—as we have more or less done—and all you have is the earthly variety, which is pretty unreliable. So no consolation—just emptiness.”

She wanted to say something now. “But what’s the point of false hope? What’s the point of telling ourselves that something will happen when we know it won’t? I’d like to believe in fairies but does it help me to delude myself as to their existence?”

He looked away, and she wondered whether she had offended him with a lightweight remark; she had not intended to be flippant.

“We don’t need fairies,” he said. “Because a belief in fairies would make no difference to the way we behave towards one another. But a belief in some inherent justice in this world—a justice to which we’re all subject—would make a big difference to the way we act towards others here and now.”

Barbara looked dubious. She was thinking about how eschatology might blunt the desire to do something about the here and now. “So we
need
to believe in eternal justice—even if we know it doesn’t exist?”

Hugh made a gesture of resignation. “I know it sounds ridiculous—
believing something you don’t believe. But it’s a serious point, Barbara. It’s the same in the debate on free will and determinism. Determinists argue that everything we do is caused by something else—by what’s happened to us, by our genes, even by the dictates of geography. There’s a lot to be said for that, but try living your life on a basis of determinism: no blame, no responsibility; passive acceptance is about the only position you could hold. So even if we think that determinism is true,
we still have to act as if free will exists—we really do
.”

“Oh,” she said. And then, contemplating what he had said, she said, “Oh,” again.

“So,” Hugh went on, “there I was, effectively a prisoner. And then …”

He faltered, and she looked at him with concern. “Hugh, darling Hugh, if this is painful …”

He shook his head. “No, I’ll tell you, Barbara—I have to tell you now. And I want to. You see, what happened was that I had been kidnapped and I was now about to be told why. They were going to make me a gigolo—a gigolo on their cruise liner.”

Barbara gasped. She had not expected this.

She suddenly felt dizzy, almost vertiginous. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She tried to clear her head by shaking it; she stood up; she fell down.

“M
Y DARLING
!”

Hugh rushed to help Barbara to her feet. He thought at first that she had fainted, but she had not: her eyes had remained open,
fixed on Hugh in an expression that combined astonishment with disbelief. And there was something else there too, he felt: disgust.

He took her hand, and for a moment it seemed that she flinched at his touch, as one might recoil from one who has confessed to contagiousness.

“Are you all right?”

His own question struck him as trite and inappropriate. Of course she was not all right: her legs had buckled under her, and she had narrowly avoided banging her head. But what else could one say in the circumstances?

Barbara nodded. She was back on her feet now, helped by Hugh. “Yes, I’m fine. Sorry about that. I think I must have slipped …”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t slip. You reacted to what I told you. I shocked you, didn’t I? You almost fainted from shock.”

She dusted down her jeans. “I didn’t faint.”

“Fine, you didn’t faint. I’m sorry, though—I really am. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”

She was about to say that she was glad he had told her, but she realised that she was not. She would have much preferred him to say nothing, to keep it to himself. So she replied, “Maybe not. But you’ve started the story, and so I think you should tell me what happened afterwards.”

“I’m not sure—”

She brushed aside his objection. “No, you have to, Hugh. You have to.”

He sighed. “It’s not very edifying.”

“Tell me. Come on.”

“All right,” he began. “The door opened suddenly, and a man in uniform came in. He gestured to me to sit down on the bed while he took the sole chair in the cabin. He was a rather tough-looking man, with a prominent forehead. His uniform made it clear that
he was one of the ship’s officers—quite a senior one, judging by the gold bands circling the sleeves of his jacket.

“ ‘You’ve been brought here because you were uncooperative,’ he said to me. ‘Well, now you cooperate, see, or …’ He drew a finger across his neck in a slitting gesture.

“ ‘You have no right to detain me,’ I said. ‘I shall …’

“He waited for me to articulate my threat but I could not think what I could do; if they kept me locked up in this cabin, then my powerlessness would be complete. I really was in no position to threaten anything.