Dead in the Water (7 page)

8
Amazonas

José and Rachel have been struggling through thick scrub and heavy rain, the video camera and its precious digi-card sealed in a plastic bag that she found in the hide. It’s dark now; darker than anyone living in a city can ever know, and they have had to stop. They have bundled themselves together into the survival bag Rachel rescued from the tree hut; not for warmth – their bodies are running with sweat – and not for sex – but as protection against the host of biting, sucking insects. Aside from Dias’ bullet wound, they are both covered in grazes, every one of which offers raw flesh to parasites, eager to burrow in and lay their eggs. Dias is becoming feverish and she is worried that his wound is infected.

Her determination to get Dias to safety and to show the world what they have witnessed is all that’s fending off the despair she fears is lurking, silent as a caiman.

“
José,” she whispers. “José.” He doesn’t stir. Thank God it’s him and not Pablo. The thought triggers a wave of conscience, reminding her what she was wishing on Pablo less than twenty four hours ago. “I’m frightened.” But José is snoring; submerged deep in sleep.

She tries to persuade herself that if they can get through the night, then tomorrow they’ll reach the river. She tries the satphone again. There’s just enough power left in the battery to illuminate the display: a text from Jeremy Peters.

In spite of everything, she smiles to herself, amused at his formality and politeness. ‘It would be good to hear from you’. How very nice. She tries ringing him. No reply. Bastard. Rather than leaving a message, she sends him a short text; but the display dies on her and she has no idea whether it’s gone or not.

Death in the forest may generally be quiet and unspectacular, but, even in the middle of the night, the world itself is a relentless cacophony of sound. Is this what it must be like to suffer from tinnitus? While the howler monkeys, the parrots, the macaws briefly sleep, a huge variety of other sounds from smaller creatures rattle and rasp, screech and pulsate through the night. Briefly she dozes, snatching perhaps a minute, perhaps an hour – until she is startled awake by Dias calling out in his restless sleep.

In such complete darkness it’s difficult to keep her eyes open. But there is something in the darkness above, something which looks like a point of light. She cannot focus her eyes, however; and cannot distinguish between what is and what might be. She has no sense of the space around her. Is it centimetres away or above the forest canopy.

Friday

9
London

On arrival at Downing Street, Mark is ushered down a dark corridor past the staircase which leads up to the Walkers’ family flat and in to the large panelled room that Angela Walker refers to as the small lounge. There is no disguising the austere masculinity of the wood panelling, but she has commissioned a young designer to do her best to feminise the space. A beautiful cream hand-made Nepalese rug has become the centre piece of the room; on it stands a low square beech and glass coffee table and around that eight chairs, chosen for their comfort as much as their elegance.

A tray with bottles of water, glasses, two stylish bone china cups and a pot of coffee await him on the table. Mark pours one for himself while he’s waiting. This is the room she uses for meetings with her inner circle of press officers and trusted advisers. She likes the informality of it.

It’s nearly three o’ clock when she joins him. She usually carries a long day with ease; but she looks tired and drawn. “There’s been another bomb. Nobody hurt this time. I’ve just been talking to the police. It happened about forty minutes ago. The M4 / M25 interchange. A group calling themselves
The Angels of Light
has claimed responsibility – and for the Underpass bomb.” She sits down in the chair next to him. The room seems empty, their closeness almost conspiratorial.

“
Have they made demands?”

“
They’re throwing our own election manifesto back at us. If we don’t do as they ask, they’re threatening to close down the road network and all major airports. And they express regret about the death of the dogs.”

“
Do the police have anything to go on?”

“
They’re following up significant leads. You would think that parking a lorry on the junction between the M25 and the M4 there would be something. Something to go on. But no. The police have nothing.”

“
There must have been another vehicle involved.”

“
Of course. But the traffic cameras went down about fifteen minutes before the bomb went off. Whoever they are, these people are highly sophisticated. The police seem to think that some form of Electromagnetic Pulse Gun was used to disable the cameras.”

“
I thought that was science fiction.”

“
I don’t think you can buy them off the internet just yet. They’ve given us a week in which to put in place what they call ‘genuine policies to implement a radical agenda for change.’ There will be no more attacks in that period. And when does our week run out? Twenty four hours before the Summit. And in the meantime Central London is paralysed. Highways have promised me that we’ll get the M4 back within 24 hours. But the raised section of the M25 has been seriously weakened. One carriageway will be closed for at least three weeks.”

She wants Mark to resign. That’s what he’s here for. He’s certain of it. In his student days, Mark had been a member of a radical green organisation which had advocated exactly this kind of extreme action. He has moved further and further away from that position – politically, philosophically and pragmatically. Angela Walker knows that; she admires him for it. But some of the Press remain sceptical. Anticipating the worst, he pours himself a coffee, even though he doesn’t want another. He fills Angela’s cup. She ignores it, takes a drink of water.

The chic modern lighting installed by Mrs Walker’s design team focuses light on the modern furnishings in the centre of the room. It’s intended to relax and soothe, to create a sense of a floating space. At this time of night, however, the virtual invisibility of the Victorian oak walls is darkly intimidating. The design brief had to acknowledge that any Prime Minister’s incumbency is a transitory gift, that the panelling and the ornate ceiling plasterwork could not be touched; but in this midnight silence the room itself threatens.

Mark breaks the silence: “Have they made the demands public yet?”

“
Not yet.”

“
Why not?”

“
That’s what I want you to tell me.”

“
I imagine … they don’t want to back us in to a corner. If they’re not making their demands public, then that gives us some space, some room ––”

“
For what?” she snaps. “Room for what, Mark? Negotiation? We are not prepared to negotiate with terrorists. Not on any terms.”

“
I understand that.” From another room he can make out the sound of
News 24
. “I wasn’t suggesting negotiation. But if the demands are not made public, does that not allow us to fast track some of the manifesto without being seen to ––”

“
Our election manifesto articulated aims. We have always been aware of the need to retain a balance between what is environmentally desirable and the economic implications of that. We cannot simply halve the amount of air traffic flying in and out of this country any more than we can double the price of petrol at the pumps.”

"I understand that, Prime Minister, of course I understand that.” That is what he is here for: to understand and offer support. But he knows how she operates: for support to be meaningful you first have to stand your ground. “We were planning to introduce the Transport Policy this week,” says Mark. “We’ve postponed it.”

“
Your statement was perfect. Thank you. We have to be very careful here, Mark. We must not on any account be seen as apologists for terrorism.” She pauses, then speaks more slowly, weighting every word as solemnly as if she were speaking at The Cenotaph. “We are real world politicians. Not cosy back-room idealists. In the real world what we are seen to be doing is every bit as important as what we actually do.”

Feeling more than ever like the naughty schoolboy in the head teacher’s study, Mark hesitates before asking, “And the government’s commitment to Carbon Resource Funding?”

“
Mark, the government’s commitment is not at issue here.”

“
We agreed that if we couldn’t get agreement at the Summit we would set an example by unilaterally signing an agreement with Guyana.”

“
You don’t need to tell me what we agreed, Mark.”

“
I spoke to a colleague in Venezuela this morning.” She looks impatient, as if this is a pointless digression. Mark pauses.

“
Go on.”

“
What if the terrorists make public demands for immediate implementation of global Carbon Resource Funding?”

“
What if? We have to deal with this in exactly the same way we would deal with any major terrorist threat. We have to prevent a recurrence. That is our priority. We do everything necessary to prevent another attack.”

She takes a drink of water; then gives him a look, the eye-to-eye, ‘you are trusted, Mark’ look. “We want you to adopt a high profile, Mark. We want you to be seen to be outraged. Take every opportunity to denounce Extreme Green terrorism as wholly counter-productive. Argue the economic case for gradualism.”

“
That is what I have been doing.”

“
Of course. And we appreciate it. Privately, we also want you to talk to the Security Services. You understand the extremist thought process. You have been there and you have rejected it.”

“
Right,” he says, suddenly conscious that his mouth is very dry.

“
In the mind of Jo Public you are associated with the Green Movement. Whatever we do, Mark, it is vital that our response is not seen as part of a hidden Green Agenda.”

“
Why don’t you sack me?”

“
Mark, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say that was petulant.”

“
I apologise.”

“
I value you, Mark. Sacking you would be a form of capitulation. You are not an extremist. These people are. We are not going to give an inch to them. And strategically, Mark, you are very important. You shouldn’t forget that."

Strategically. What the fuck does that mean?

He’s had too much coffee, and sleeps fitfully, waking before the alarm. He drinks a long glass of fresh orange juice, puts on his track suit and goes out for a run in the park. The rain has stopped; and it’s a beautiful morning. Early morning sun glinting off distant high windows, mist lying over the lakes, steam rising off the tarmacked paths. He manages a run most mornings; but today, knowing how much lies ahead of him, he runs harder than usual. After six miles, flat out, he’s at his limit. He stops just outside the house, holds on to the old iron railings, breathing deeply.

It gives him a chance to look again at the back of his car. Just 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