Brian Freemantle - Betrayals

No, thought Janet. Despite trying so hard Harriet had not been able to begin to imagine what it had been like with Hank slowly dying, and she would not be able to begin to imagine what it was like now. No one could. More to herself than to her friend Janet said: “If I had known it might have been better: I might have been more prepared.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Janet, confronting her helplessness for the first time.

“No,” said Harriet, an admission of her own, seeming embarrassed now by her question. “It’s difficult to think of anything to do, isn’t it?”

“I suppose I’ll call tomorrow, to see what they can tell me,” she said. Who? Janet demanded of herself. The only number she had was one she now suspected to be some clever telephone system. And who were “they”?

The telephone rang again and Janet jumped at the noise, realizing how already strained her nerves were. She recognized her mother’s voice at once, although it was a difficult connection, one that made the words echo from the English end.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for hours,” announced her mother, with typical exaggeration.

“When did you ring?” asked Janet.

“About half an hour ago.”

The call she hadn’t reached in time, decided Janet. So it had not been some official notification. She said: “I was here. You should have waited.”

“What are you going to do?”

It seemed to be a repetitive question, thought Janet. She said: “I don’t know yet. It’s late here now: I’ll start trying to do something tomorrow.” What? she asked herself again.

“Did you know he was a spy?”

Janet could not respond at once. Her mind had not gone on to the actual description of what he did. The concept of the polite, cultured, quiet-talking John Sheridan actually being a spy seemed preposterous: was preposterous. She said: “No, I didn’t know.”

“How could he not have told you!” Her mother sounded outraged over the hollow line.

“He couldn’t have told me, could he?” said Janet. Already she was making excuses. Almost irritably she said: “Did Daddy tell you everything he did at the embassies!”

Now the older woman hesitated. “No,” she conceded, finally.

“So it’s just the same, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” said her mother, doubtfully. “They’ll get him out, won’t they? The government-Washington-I mean.”

Something else her mind had not gone on to, conceded Janet. Not quite true, she corrected: something she had refused to let herself think about. Janet said: “Of course,” conscious as she spoke of the lack of conviction in her own voice.

“Do you want us to come over?”

“Why?” asked Janet, surprised.

“I don’t know,” admitted her mother. “I just feel that we should.”

“There’s not really a lot of point, is there?” said Janet. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“I suppose not,” accepted the older woman.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything,” promised Janet.

There was a moment of silence on the telephone that seemed to go on for a long time. Janet said: “Hello! Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” said her mother. “I just don’t know what else to say.”

“There’s nothing much to say, is there?” pointed out Janet.

“Everything seemed so wonderful. After what happened to Hank your father and I were so happy for you… you didn’t deserve this…” The voice trailed off, lost.

“I’ve thought about that, Mother,” said Janet, tightly.

“He should have told you: warned you,” blurted the woman, abruptly. “It wasn’t fair.”

“We’ve discussed that,” reminded Janet, tighter still.

“Are you sure there is nothing we can do?”

The problem, thought Janet, was that she was sure about very little: nothing, in fact. She said: “No, but thank you.”

“Keep in touch,” urged her mother.

Janet thought it was a stupid remark to make and at once curbed her increasing irritation: her mother was only trying to be sympathetically helpful. She said: “Of course I will. The moment I hear anything.”

“It’s all going to turn out fine,” insisted the woman, with forced enthusiasm. “Your father and I have talked about it and we know everything is going to be fine.”

“I know you’re right,” said Janet, emptily. Now she was reassuring her mother instead of it being the other way around.

“Call if there’s anything you need,” said her mother, reluctant to sever the connection.

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Goodbye then.”

“Goodbye.”

“Sure you don’t want us to come over?”

“Quite sure.”

When she turned around from the telephone Janet saw that Harriet had overfilled two brandy snifters and was offering her one. Her immediate thought was that it was a cliched reaction to a personal drama, like a scene from one of the interminable soap operas, and then, just as quickly, that the glass being held out to her was the one in which Sheridan usually had his nightcap. Janet accepted the drink, although she didn’t want it, and said: “Thanks.”

“Now!” said Harriet, briskly. “What would you like me to do?”

Every conversation appeared limited to the same questions and answers, reflected Janet. She shrugged and said: “There’s nothing any of us can do, not until tomorrow, is there?”

“Would you like me to stay over: sleep here?” Harriet asked.

Again Janet was surprised. “Whatever for!”

It became Harriet’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know: thought you might like some company.”

“I’ll be OK,” Janet said.

“It’s a bastard, isn’t it?” Harriet said.

“Yes,” Janet agreed. “A complete bastard.”

T he number rang twice before it was picked up and a voice Janet thought she recognized from her previous calls said: “State.”

“Is it?” asked Janet.

There was a pause and the voice said: “Ma’am?”

“My name is Janet Stone,” she said, carefully prepared. “I am the fiancee of John Sheridan, who gave me this number. I’ve reached him on it, several times. I want to speak to somebody to find out what’s happened to him in Beirut.”

There was a further hesitation before the voice said: “Will you hold a moment, ma’am?”

Janet did not time the delay but it seemed to last for several minutes. When the line opened again it was a different voice. The man said: “Who is this, please?”

Janet repeated her earlier statement, which she had rehearsed, just as she had written down questions she wanted answered, while she waited for eight-thirty to show on the clock, the time she imagined they might start work. She finished by saying: “Who am I talking to?”

He didn’t answer her question. Instead he said: “How did you get this number?”

“I already told you, from my fiance, John Sheridan,” reiterated Janet. “I want to find somebody who can help me. Can you help me?”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” he said. “I think you’ve got a misconnection. No John Sheridan works here.”

Janet felt a hollowness begin to form deep down in her stomach, but there was anger, too. She tried to control the anger, knowing it would not help and believing, too, that this number and this unknown man was the only link she had to people who might know what was going on in Beirut. With forced calmness she said: “I have not got a misconnection and I know I did not misdial, either. I have used this number to speak to John Sheridan on a number of occasions during the past year. I want to know what’s happened to him: what’s going to be done to get him released.”