Betrayals (39 page)

“I'm not sure,” said Janet, still doubtful.

“It's
got
to be the Americans,” argued Baxeter, with irrefutable logic. “John Sheridan is an American citizen: an operative of the Central Intelligence Agency. Who else has the resources—the ability—to do anything but the American government?”

Janet gazed at her lover, not speaking for several moments. Then she said: “I want to say something but I don't want to hurt you, OK?”

“OK,” he agreed.

“The Americans—the CIA—have had this sort of stuff before …” Janet picked up and then dropped the photograph. “He's still somewhere there, in captivity. I want a guarantee that this time they'll do something!”

“Blackmail them, then,” said Baxeter.

It seemed to be a day of simplistic answers, thought Janet. She said: “Blackmail them!”

“You're the media manipulator, right? Tell whoever you see at the embassy here … what's his name?”

“Hart,” supplied Janet. “Al Hart.”

“Tell Al Hart that unless you're sure—unless you
know
—that they're going to do something you're going to have copies of this photograph—copies that you'll make, before you hand this original over—made available to all the press hanging around the hotel. And that you'll give a press conference complaining that Washington are doing nothing, yet again.”

“All right,” acknowledged Janet, still doubtful. “But what
can
they do, just from a photograph?” She picked it up. “It doesn't show where he is: give any sort of clue how he could be got out, does it?”

“It'll prove you're someone to be believed: taken proper notice of,” said Baxeter.

“So?”

“So they will
have
to do something when you provide an actual address.”

“An address!” In her excitement Janet came forward and the sheet fell away but she didn't bother to pick it up again. “You have an address!”

“No,” Baxeter said. “Just the promise of one. But the promise is from the same source and I think it's reliable.”

“They're going to ask me about a source, aren't they?”

“Yes,” said Baxeter.

“So what do I say?”

“Nothing,” advised the man. “Refuse to say where anything comes from as a further guarantee of their cooperation.”

“Aren't you taking a risk!” pressed Janet.

“What risk?” Baxeter smiled back. “If I were asked about it I would deny everything.”

“Do you
really
think your man can find an address?”

“He found the photograph.”

“You really are …” started Janet but Baxeter talked her down.

“No. Don't say it. There's no need.”

“This hasn't made anything easier: more difficult, in fact.”

“I know.”

“I want to stay with you tonight,” said Janet. “But I don't …”

“… I know that, too,” he stopped her again.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too.”

26

J
anet hesitated outside the American embassy at the corner of Therissos Street, caught by the irony that it was one of the feed roads on the way to Larnaca, where so much had happened. And where they'd all laughed at her: the bastards who'd tricked her and the bastards who were supposed to help her. They couldn't laugh any more; she had what she'd come to Cyprus to get and, like Baxeter said, they had to take her seriously from now on. And by Christ she was determined they were going to take her seriously!

The embassy was quite heavily fortified and Janet had to prove her identity at a guard house before being allowed to approach the main building. By the time she reached it, her arrival had been telephoned through. She asked for Al Hart. The receptionist asked if she had an appointment and Janet replied that she'd telephoned, to say she was coming. Which she had. Hart had refused to take her call.

There was a muffled conversation and the woman smiled, embarrassed. “I'm sorry,” she said. “Mr. Hart isn't available.”

Janet took the Beirut photograph from her handbag, holding it out and displaying it to the woman. “Tell Hart that I'm showing you a photograph of John Sheridan taken a week ago. And tell him to get his ass out here!”

Hart was in the vestibule in three minutes, face blazing, eyes bulged with anger. “What the hell's going on!” he demanded, at once.

“I want to talk,” said Janet. “Politely and sensibly. I want to talk.”

The man's effort at control was discernible. “Where's the photograph!” he demanded.

“Where's your office?” said Janet. It hadn't occurred to her to gloat and she was not really gloating now, but there was a satisfaction in being in control—in being the teller, not the told—after all the bullshit that had been dumped upon her.

Hart hesitated and then turned on his heel, leading her deeper into the embassy. The CIA section was at the rear and to reach it they had to pass through a ceiling-to-floor barred door like the sort Janet remembered from movies about prisons. There was a Marine on guard outside and Hart had to authorize Janet's entry in an official, signed log.

His office was a bare box of a place very similar to that of George Knox, the CIA man in Beirut: a standard design, thought Janet.

“The picture!” Hart demanded.

“I think we should set out some ground rules first,” said Janet. “So OK, you don't like me. You think I'm a pain. I don't like you. I think you're a jerk. But I've got proof that John is still alive: proof you, none of you, could get. There's a possibility of my being able to get more. So we've got to work together, be together, whether you like it or not. So let's at least be civil, OK?”

Hart sat looking at her across his clean desk, a vein in his forehead throbbing in time to his annoyance. With difficulty he said: “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude.”

On the apology scale of ten Janet scored that at about two but decided that it was a concession. Without speaking she dug into her handbag again and offered the photograph across the desk.

Hart snatched it. For a long time he stared down and when he looked back to her all the dismissive aggression had gone. “Jesus!” he said. “Jesus H. Christ!”

“So?”

“I'm sorry,” said Hart, sincerely this time. “I really am sorry.”

“That wasn't what I meant,” said Janet. “He's alive, isn't he? John's alive!” And so, she thought, was David Baxeter.

Hart was back over the photograph, moving it flatly against the light. He said: “It looks OK.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's possible to fake photographs: superimpose things, like a newspaper with a date on it, over a picture taken earlier,” said Hart.

Janet felt a plunge of despair. “But the picture itself!” she argued. “That picture hasn't been released, has it!”

“No,” agreed Hart. “Like I said, it looks OK. It can be checked by experts:
will
be checked.”

“It's genuine,” Janet insisted, needing the assurance.

“I'm prepared to go with it right away,” said Hart, smiling for the first time.

The expression was sincere, like the second apology, Janet decided. “You'll tell Washington?”

“Of course I'll tell Washington. Beirut, too,” said Hart. He rubbed his hands together, as if he were warming them, and went on briskly: “OK, so where did you get it? Where do we go from here?”

“No.” Janet shook her head.

Hart's smile faltered. “What do you mean, no!”

“It's my source. It stays that way.”

Hart leaned across the desk, hands together now as if he were praying. “Ms. Stone,” he said, controlled. “Don't you think you've been involved in enough screwups already?”

“Yes,” concurred Janet at once. “Far too many screwups. And I'm not going to get involved in any more. Neither am I going to be shunted aside, as I've been shunted aside almost always since this thing began. I want guarantees and I want to remain the conduit, to ensure that they're being kept.”

The vein in Hart's forehead began to dance again. “What sort of guarantees, Ms. Stone?”

Named courtesy every time now, Janet noticed. Instead of directly replying Janet said: “What if I could get a location to go with the photograph? Maybe even an address?”

Hart stared at her for a long time. Then he said: “You think you could get something like that?”

“Maybe,” hedged Janet. “What if I could? If I could tell you a street where John Sheridan is being held? Will you—some American group or force or whatever—go in to get him out?”

Hart nodded, understanding the demand. He said: “I can't answer that, not right now.”

“I don't expect you to answer it right now,” said Janet. “What about after you've been in contact with Washington?”

“Maybe not then, either.”

“I need to know,” Janet said. “I told you I won't be shunted aside any more.”

Hart looked down again at the photograph and said: “This isn't the only copy, is it, Ms. Stone?”

“No,” said Janet. “I've quite a lot more.”

“So it's an ultimatum?”

“A request,” corrected Janet.

“You know it's John's life you're risking, if you release this?”

“I've had this conversation so many times I can recite it backwards,” said Janet. “I'm not risking John's life. I'm trying to save his life by getting some fucking action!”

“Quite a lot about this conversation is familiar, isn't it?” said Hart, unmoved by the outburst. “You sure of your source, Ms. Stone?”

Janet indicated the picture: “It produced that, didn't it?”

“And promises an address,” mused Hart. “I know what Willsher told you, in Washington. About all the professional efforts that we've made: the cooperation we've had from other countries, other agencies. To come up with nil. And now you've got a picture taken a week ago and expect more.”

“Yes,” said Janet.

“That's impressive!” said Hart. “The lone amateur showing all the professionals how to do it!”

“Does it matter, if it gets John out?”

“I don't know, Ms. Stone. I really don't know.”

“I can't see any direction in this conversation,” said Janet, uneasily.

“At the risk of further repetition,” said the American. “You will be careful, won't you?”

“I've learned the hard way how to be,” assured Janet. “That's why I'm trying to establish more ground rules.”

“So I'll play to your game plan,” accepted Hart.

No he wouldn't, Janet recognized at once. He was just stringing her along until he thought he had everything and then he'd dump her. She said: “How long before you'll get a playback from Washington?”

“Your rules,” reminded Hart. “How long before you get something more?”

“I don't know,” admitted Janet.

“Why don't I wait for you to make contact when you've got something?”

Already being pushed aside, judged Janet. Patronized, too. “No,” she said. “Why don't you make contact when you hear from Washington?”

The American capitulated. “You're calling the shots.”

Driving away from the embassy Janet tried to analyze the encounter. Good enough, she supposed: certainly the official door had been opened to her. But for their advantage, not hers. But then, objectively, what else could she expect? Their job—the CIA's job anyway—was collecting information, not imparting it. It was unrealistic for her to expect anything like complete admission, complete access, to whatever they might do. At very best all she could expect was to be allowed on the sidelines, where she wouldn't get in the way.

Janet and Baxeter had arranged to meet at the Tembelodendron and as she entered the restaurant Janet wished they had chosen somewhere else because it was where she and Baxeter had lunched the first day they met, and she was unhappy at it becoming a romantic shrine the way the Virginia inn had become
the
place for her and John. Why? she demanded of herself. Didn't Baxeter (when would she think of him in given name terms!) deserve some sort of special romantic place, as well? Janet became impatient with the constant internal argument. It was arrogant—conceited even—this perpetual effort to maintain a balancing act. And what a balancing act! She could think rationally and behave rationally and make all sorts of sensible, rational decisions—for Christ's sake she was an aloof academic, wasn't she!—but the bottom line came down to choice and she knew she couldn't choose: wasn't able to choose.