Brian Freemantle - Betrayals

The New York Times had also printed a profile. It included everything published in the Washington Post -although not so many photographs-but reported additionally that despite what the CIA was publicly saying Sheridan had for the past three years held the rank of supervisor in the Middle East analysis section and was regarded as one of the top three Middle East experts in the Agency. His loss, said the newspaper, was viewed extremely seriously both at Langley and at the White House. Determined to avoid another assassination, like that of Buckley, the State Department had already made a formal diplomatic approach to Damascus asking Syria to bring all possible pressure upon whatever group had seized Sheridan. In addition, informal contact had been made to every friendly or neutral embassy in the Lebanese capital, seeking information from their sources on the CIA man’s whereabouts.

Janet had read the newspapers kneeling on the floor upon which they were laid. She slumped back now on her heels, wanting to feel relieved at learning that some effort was being made to get Sheridan released, but finding that reaction difficult. She told herself that the word “loss” in the Times report was just a journalistic usage and carried no special significance, but it made her uneasy. Like the account of the diplomatic efforts made her uneasy. Again, she tried to convince herself that it was exactly what the U.S. government should be doing-what she would have expected them to be doing and been angry if they hadn’t-but it seemed to hint at panic. And if the government and the Agency were panicking, they clearly feared Sheridan would be treated exactly like the previous CIA hostage. Janet fought against the conclusion, recognizing there was no reason whatsoever to speculate like that, but she was unable completely to remove it from her mind.

It was a physical as well as mental agony to wait until four o’clock in the afternoon-the skin on her arms and legs began to itch, and became sore at her scratching-but she delayed until then to avoid annoyance at Langley. At four she decided she had every reason to go back to them.

She went through the morning’s explanation to the switchboard operator, and when she was transferred, realized at once that she was not speaking to the same secondary spokesman. It meant a further repetition which she gave as calmly as possible, even when the man began reciting the official statement and she had to cut him off by insisting she had been promised a call back by the person to whom she had earlier spoken.

The man asked her to hold and then returned to say: “Your earlier call has been logged, Ms. Stone.”

“What’s that mean?” demanded Janet.

“That it’s been logged,” repeated the man, doggedly.

“I heard the words,” Janet said. “Logging something is just recording the fact. I’m waiting to speak to someone… hopefully meet with someone.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything beyond what I’ve told you, ma’am.”

Stop calling me ma’am! Janet almost screamed. She said: “You haven’t told me anything yet. Can I speak to whoever it was I had the conversation with this morning?”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible, ma’am.”

“Why not?”

There was a pause, as if the person at the other end were undecided whether he was risking an unauthorized disclosure. Then he said: “That person is no longer on duty today.”

“So when can I expect to hear from whoever is going to talk to me!”

“I’m afraid I have no knowledge of that, ma’am.”

For several moments Janet had to clamp her mouth shut against a yell of frustration. Tightly she said: “Can you find out for me? Find out and call me back? I’ve been sitting by this telephone all day expecting some contact from you.”

“I’m afraid that would not be proper, Ms. Stone,” said the man, at least varying his politeness.

“Why the hell wouldn’t it be proper!” demanded Janet.

“I’ve no way of knowing what my colleague might have already done,” said the man. “Wires could get crossed.”

Janet pressed her knuckles against her mouth, creating a physical barrier. “How long?” she said, her words distorted.

“I’m sorry?” prompted the man.

Janet took her hand from her mouth and said, slowly and distinctly: “How long is it going to be before I hear from someone at the Central Intelligence Agency about what’s happening here and what’s happening in Beirut after the kidnap yesterday of John Sheridan!”

There was a hesitation. Then the man said: “I’m afraid I can’t answer that, ma’am.”

“Is this the way dependents of CIA officers are normally treated?” said Janet, regretting the anger as she spoke.

“Ma’am,” said the spokesman. “I’ve told you your earlier call has been logged and that a colleague is working on it. But from what you’ve explained to me, it would seem that you are not legally a dependent.”

The words had a chilling effect, cooling Janet’s anger as if icy water had been thrown in her face. “You’re telling me that I haven’t the right to know!”

“I don’t wish to get into a dispute with you over this,” said the spokesman. “I was just expressing a personal point of view.”

She was being blocked out, Janet decided. As she’d been blocked out when she called the supposed State Department number and when she made that first approach to Langley. She said: “No one is going to try to help me, are they?”

“Ma’am, I’ve already tried to make it clear how little I can assist you.”

“Poor bugger,” said Janet.

“Ma’am?”

“I was feeling sorry for John Sheridan, for ever getting involved,” she said, quietly now.

“I really don’t think there is anything further I can help you with,” said the man.

“Don’t forget to log the call, will you?” urged Janet, slamming down the telephone.

The gesture didn’t help and she sat there, the renewed frustration trembling through her. Gradually she focused on the spread-apart Washington Post. During that morning’s conversations, she’d said she didn’t want to cause difficulties. It wasn’t she who had imposed those difficulties, Janet decided: they had.

She picked up the telephone again. She explained yet again, to the Washington Post operator, and was connected at once to a voice that said, simply: “City.”

“My name is Janet Stone,” she said. “I am engaged to be married to John Sheridan.”

“Would you talk to us about that, Ms. Stone?” asked the man, at once.

“I want to, very much,” said Janet. “I’m being shoved aside by the Agency.”

“Where are you?”

When Janet gave her address, the deskman said: “We can have a writer and photographer there in forty-five minutes.”

They arrived in thirty. The writer was a thin, bony woman with prematurely gray-streaked hair, and the male photographer wore jeans and a T-shirt and round, metal-framed granny glasses.

“What can you tell us about John Sheridan and yourself?” asked the woman, as soon as she was inside the apartment.

“Everything,” promised Janet.

J anet had little experience of newspapers or the other media, and the reaction to her interview with the Washington Post overwhelmed her. It was only eleven o’clock that night, and Harriet was still with her, when the telephone first rang. It was the staff correspondent for the BBC who had read the piece in the first edition of the following morning’s paper and wanted an interview at their Washington studio, to be transmitted by a satellite link-up with London for their breakfast program. Knowing there would be no contact from the CIA that late at night, she agreed. Hairnet offered to remain in the apartment just in case, and it was Harriet who relayed to her at the studio the calls from American bureaus of five London newspapers, CBS, NBC, and ABC, the New York Times, Newsday, Newsweek, and Reuters news agency. She agreed to the American television interviews and spoke to the London Times, the Daily Telegraph, and the Daily Mail but then, exhausted, asked the others to wait until the following morning. It was three-thirty before she got to bed. The Reuters reporter and photographer called from the downstairs lobby at seven.