Read Online Flashback (The Saskia Brandt Series Book Two) by Ian Hocking - Free Book Online
Authors: Ian Hocking
Tags: Science-Fiction, technothriller
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bandoneón accompanist. At points, the eyes of fellow European travellers marked his as though they were Geoffroy’s cats making remote acquaintance through the grasses of the pampas. He savoured the boutiques, smiled at prostitutes and declined the split coconuts with twisted straws. He moved, imperially slim, through the tea-like odour of chewed coca leaves and the fall scent of cigars. The vigour of the city awed him, yet this was siesta , the quiet time.
Cory found a restaurant and ate a grilled local fish called abadejo along with an Argentine wine whose sharpness he countered with a Heineken. Anxious to leave, he rubbed his fingers at the waiter before the beer was empty.
‘ Quisiera la cuenta, por favor .’
‘ Quedate aqui, amigo. Va a llover .’
Cory craned to see the sky beyond the awning. It was slate-coloured and close. The wind had increased.
‘Then I’ll buy a brolly.’
The waiter shrugged.
The rain caught him within a mile. Soon, Cory’s hat was battered and his jacket crushed and heavy. He ducked beneath the awning of a grocer and stood dripping on the apples and potatoes while the street shivered with water. A thin lady stopped at his elbow. She wiped her fingertips on her apron.
‘ Las desgracias nunca vienen solas .’
Cory smiled. ‘ ¿Tiene un paraguas? Se lo pagare. ’
The woman narrowed her eyes. Her features were almost oriental, and Cory wondered if she descended from the indigenous Guaraní, who had walked the pampas before the time of the conquistadores . She clacked through a beaded archway and returned with a cloth umbrella. It was tatty and decorated with dragons. ‘ Umbrayla , Englishman.’
Cory did not haggle. He gave her a note and re-entered the rain before she could overcome her surprise and shout her thanks. This was not, he knew, good tradecraft. Here he was, bright as a beacon in the empty streets of Buenos Aires carrying a faux-Chinese parasol. Cory smiled at the memory of his mentor, Blake. How much he would have given to travel this Buenos Airean street in a 1947 downpour – in 1947 by God. This was a golden age for the States. Given time, it would bankrupt the Soviet Union and live out its last days as a patrician superpower.
By Cory’s time, the republic would be in pieces. He well remembered the public debates of his childhood. They had been led by old, white men behind lecterns stamped with the Seal of Georgia. The debates concerned the undoing of a centuries-old compact, made when the pressure to unite the states had been equal to that of continents colliding. By Cory’s teenage years, waters had fouled, cities starved, and blood was bad. Talk was suspended, then sense. A posse hanged Cory’s uncle and blinded his father. His mother was sodomised, so a friend told him. The transitional government moved his family to a camp on the Rio Grande run by charities from Europe and China, but the cholera was there too and Cory was back in Georgia before winter, lying about his age, saddling up for the militia. He became a sharpshooter and fought at Chicago.
Cory angled the umbrella to look for a street sign. This was it. On the opposite side of the plaza, high on a building, a red shirt hung in the rain. Lisandro had been correct. After twenty days without contact, there was a message waiting for him at the dead drop.
~
Five feral cats watched him through the gate of the Cementerio de la Recoleta . The rain had stopped. His umbrella was furled but his suit had not dried. He opened the gate and stepped over water-filled bowls that, on his last visit, had contained kitchen scraps. A tabby drove its forehead into his leg as he surveyed the cemetery. It was almost empty of visitors, occupied two city blocks and was grassless and consciously urban. It looked like a trap.
Minutes later, when he found the tiny mausoleum, he saw that there was a vermillion rose on its lintel. On his last visit, the rose had pointed east. Today it pointed west.
Never the twain shall
Cory found a restaurant and ate a grilled local fish called abadejo along with an Argentine wine whose sharpness he countered with a Heineken. Anxious to leave, he rubbed his fingers at the waiter before the beer was empty.
‘ Quisiera la cuenta, por favor .’
‘ Quedate aqui, amigo. Va a llover .’
Cory craned to see the sky beyond the awning. It was slate-coloured and close. The wind had increased.
‘Then I’ll buy a brolly.’
The waiter shrugged.
The rain caught him within a mile. Soon, Cory’s hat was battered and his jacket crushed and heavy. He ducked beneath the awning of a grocer and stood dripping on the apples and potatoes while the street shivered with water. A thin lady stopped at his elbow. She wiped her fingertips on her apron.
‘ Las desgracias nunca vienen solas .’
Cory smiled. ‘ ¿Tiene un paraguas? Se lo pagare. ’
The woman narrowed her eyes. Her features were almost oriental, and Cory wondered if she descended from the indigenous Guaraní, who had walked the pampas before the time of the conquistadores . She clacked through a beaded archway and returned with a cloth umbrella. It was tatty and decorated with dragons. ‘ Umbrayla , Englishman.’
Cory did not haggle. He gave her a note and re-entered the rain before she could overcome her surprise and shout her thanks. This was not, he knew, good tradecraft. Here he was, bright as a beacon in the empty streets of Buenos Aires carrying a faux-Chinese parasol. Cory smiled at the memory of his mentor, Blake. How much he would have given to travel this Buenos Airean street in a 1947 downpour – in 1947 by God. This was a golden age for the States. Given time, it would bankrupt the Soviet Union and live out its last days as a patrician superpower.
By Cory’s time, the republic would be in pieces. He well remembered the public debates of his childhood. They had been led by old, white men behind lecterns stamped with the Seal of Georgia. The debates concerned the undoing of a centuries-old compact, made when the pressure to unite the states had been equal to that of continents colliding. By Cory’s teenage years, waters had fouled, cities starved, and blood was bad. Talk was suspended, then sense. A posse hanged Cory’s uncle and blinded his father. His mother was sodomised, so a friend told him. The transitional government moved his family to a camp on the Rio Grande run by charities from Europe and China, but the cholera was there too and Cory was back in Georgia before winter, lying about his age, saddling up for the militia. He became a sharpshooter and fought at Chicago.
Cory angled the umbrella to look for a street sign. This was it. On the opposite side of the plaza, high on a building, a red shirt hung in the rain. Lisandro had been correct. After twenty days without contact, there was a message waiting for him at the dead drop.
~
Five feral cats watched him through the gate of the Cementerio de la Recoleta . The rain had stopped. His umbrella was furled but his suit had not dried. He opened the gate and stepped over water-filled bowls that, on his last visit, had contained kitchen scraps. A tabby drove its forehead into his leg as he surveyed the cemetery. It was almost empty of visitors, occupied two city blocks and was grassless and consciously urban. It looked like a trap.
Minutes later, when he found the tiny mausoleum, he saw that there was a vermillion rose on its lintel. On his last visit, the rose had pointed east. Today it pointed west.
Never the twain shall
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