Read Online Dead in the Water by Brian Woolland - Free Book Online
Authors: Brian Woolland
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as well. Since being summoned to the meeting with Mrs W, Mark has forgotten about getting the bloody car fixed. As for Daniella Gilman, well… If Sara really wants out … But now is not the time…
10 Caracas
When the phone rings at 4.15 in the morning, Jeremy’s immediate response is to ignore it. It has to be Boyd, oblivious to continental time difference: nobody else is going to call at this time. Four rings, five rings; and then, cursing himself as it suddenly dawns on him that it might be Rachel, he switches on the light. There is no light. The power’s off again. Where’s the sodding phone? He’s knocked it onto the floor.
He’s on his knees beside the bed when he thumbs the Receive button.
“ Señor Peters you must come here. The office. The One World office.” The jolt of Salvador’s voice shakes him rudely alert. “There has been a fire in the office. You must come here.”
He has to find a way of beating the curfew. No taxi driver is going to brave the militias – so he puts on a pair of shorts, some sandals and a gaudy T shirt. Clutching a half empty bottle of Tequila, he walks the half mile from his apartment to the office, hoping that even the most jumpy and inexperienced curfew patrol squad isn’t going to shoot a drunken tourist. But the streets are empty. The patrols have kids to gun down elsewhere in the city.
The fire brigade has not yet shown when he gets to the office. A crowd of people has gathered on the landing outside, many of them in night attire. The door’s open and Salvador stands guard in a pool of water, flakes of half burnt paper floating out of the door as the sprinklers continue to gush in the darkness within. The smell of smoke, which met Jeremy at the bottom of the lift shaft, is overwhelming in this enclosed space, but the fire damage could have been worse. Salvador must have arrived within minutes of the arsonists making their getaway. He called Señor Peters, the fire brigade, the police in that order – and then banged on doors and shouted for help. Torch beams shaft through the smoke and steam filled air, a gabble of noisy well-wishing gossip floods the narrow landing
Jeremy pushes through the crowd and, in spite of his garish disguise, is accorded the authority of a police chief. Most of these people have met him, if only in passing, and think of him as genial if slightly crazy. Someone lends him a torch, and he steps into the office. Salvador wants to accompany him; but Jeremy insists he stays by the door, no less irritated by his anxious puppy dog discomfiture than by his failure to turn off the sprinkler system.
Smoke has blackened the ceilings and walls, the filing cabinets, the chairs and tables; but the sprinkler system activated almost immediately and there is no smell of petrol. Either they were amateurs, or the fire was a warning, a careless gesture of brutal derision on their way out after a robbery. Salvador calls from the door that the police have arrived and are on their way up. He’s determined to explain what he was doing here at this time in the morning. But Jeremy has no time for it now. “It’s fine. I’ll tell them you were coming in to work. It’s OK.” Salvador’s mouth twitches in the anxious smile of a child who’s used to punishment. “You were here,” says Jeremy, impatiently. “That’s good. OK.” Nothing more is to be said about it. If he wanted to bring his new girl here, so be it; and just as well as it turns out.
What’s worse than the fire is that the computers have gone – not the screens, or the keyboards, none of the peripherals, just the machines themselves with all the data stored on them. And the back up discs. Even an old-fashioned card index. That’s gone too. The bastards might have been clod-handed, but they got what they wanted: identities, phone numbers, e-mail addresses for everyone in any way connected with One World in Venezuela; employees, researchers, field agents, independent
10 Caracas
When the phone rings at 4.15 in the morning, Jeremy’s immediate response is to ignore it. It has to be Boyd, oblivious to continental time difference: nobody else is going to call at this time. Four rings, five rings; and then, cursing himself as it suddenly dawns on him that it might be Rachel, he switches on the light. There is no light. The power’s off again. Where’s the sodding phone? He’s knocked it onto the floor.
He’s on his knees beside the bed when he thumbs the Receive button.
“ Señor Peters you must come here. The office. The One World office.” The jolt of Salvador’s voice shakes him rudely alert. “There has been a fire in the office. You must come here.”
He has to find a way of beating the curfew. No taxi driver is going to brave the militias – so he puts on a pair of shorts, some sandals and a gaudy T shirt. Clutching a half empty bottle of Tequila, he walks the half mile from his apartment to the office, hoping that even the most jumpy and inexperienced curfew patrol squad isn’t going to shoot a drunken tourist. But the streets are empty. The patrols have kids to gun down elsewhere in the city.
The fire brigade has not yet shown when he gets to the office. A crowd of people has gathered on the landing outside, many of them in night attire. The door’s open and Salvador stands guard in a pool of water, flakes of half burnt paper floating out of the door as the sprinklers continue to gush in the darkness within. The smell of smoke, which met Jeremy at the bottom of the lift shaft, is overwhelming in this enclosed space, but the fire damage could have been worse. Salvador must have arrived within minutes of the arsonists making their getaway. He called Señor Peters, the fire brigade, the police in that order – and then banged on doors and shouted for help. Torch beams shaft through the smoke and steam filled air, a gabble of noisy well-wishing gossip floods the narrow landing
Jeremy pushes through the crowd and, in spite of his garish disguise, is accorded the authority of a police chief. Most of these people have met him, if only in passing, and think of him as genial if slightly crazy. Someone lends him a torch, and he steps into the office. Salvador wants to accompany him; but Jeremy insists he stays by the door, no less irritated by his anxious puppy dog discomfiture than by his failure to turn off the sprinkler system.
Smoke has blackened the ceilings and walls, the filing cabinets, the chairs and tables; but the sprinkler system activated almost immediately and there is no smell of petrol. Either they were amateurs, or the fire was a warning, a careless gesture of brutal derision on their way out after a robbery. Salvador calls from the door that the police have arrived and are on their way up. He’s determined to explain what he was doing here at this time in the morning. But Jeremy has no time for it now. “It’s fine. I’ll tell them you were coming in to work. It’s OK.” Salvador’s mouth twitches in the anxious smile of a child who’s used to punishment. “You were here,” says Jeremy, impatiently. “That’s good. OK.” Nothing more is to be said about it. If he wanted to bring his new girl here, so be it; and just as well as it turns out.
What’s worse than the fire is that the computers have gone – not the screens, or the keyboards, none of the peripherals, just the machines themselves with all the data stored on them. And the back up discs. Even an old-fashioned card index. That’s gone too. The bastards might have been clod-handed, but they got what they wanted: identities, phone numbers, e-mail addresses for everyone in any way connected with One World in Venezuela; employees, researchers, field agents, independent
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